Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

THE MANSION-HOUSE, DELAFORD, DORSETSHIRE

T he muted sound of music drifted through the unusually quiet house. The new pianoforte had been purchased at the beginning of summer, since Colonel Brandon's older one had become useful only for infant fingers. This new instrument was a Walter, and the finest available from London. Marianne had been sensible of the outlay which her husband had made to secure it for her, and in return he had received some very proper thanks by way of grateful, tender smiles and his favourite dishes having been ordered for table for several succeeding days until he had laughingly asked her to have mercy on his constitution.

Now Marianne sat at the instrument, her fingers wandering over the ivory keys as if they were all her dearest friends. She played, of course, many evenings, for her family and husband, but it was not often these days that Mrs Brandon, wife, mother and mistress of Delaford, was able to find an hour to sit and play by herself, to play for no-one's delight but her own. But this afternoon found her alone. Her little girls had been taken out for a walk to the Parsonage by their aunt Meg, baby Philip was asleep, her mother was sitting in the morning parlour with a book, her husband had ridden over to Barton Park to see Sir John, and as for William, the boy was with his tutor in the library. It was a rare hour these days to find herself unoccupied by something or somebody and the pianoforte, she thought, might raise her spirits a little.

Marianne had been grateful to have had Margaret's help since six-year-old William had come to live with them, for it took all her time just managing two lively girls and an infant son. At the ages of three and two years, and with all the help a nursemaid could provide, she still found the older children, Eloise and Clara, demanding on her time when she also had the household to manage. As patroness of Delaford, she had found that the many new duties as "Mrs Philip Brandon" had at first set her head to a spin!

Four years earlier, before the children had arrived, she had been excited to take up the duties of mistress of her own house and patroness of the village, and had carried out those duties tirelessly, the approval of her husband reward enough. With pride she had attended events, cut ribbands, and awarded prizes at village fetes, as well as paid proper attention to the poor in the parish of Delaford. With the addition of three children to the household, however, she had found it increasingly difficult to keep up all her duties and be the doating mother she wished to be. Nanny, of course, looked after baby Philip for a good part of the day when Marianne was not with him, but still, Marianne had not yet recovered from his birth four months ago. A certain lowness of spirits had been creeping upon her for some weeks now, so that when the children were taken away for an hour or so, she rejoiced at the chance to lie upon her bed or the sofa just for a few minutes of rest. And then, William's arrival after the sudden death of Brandon's ward, Miss Williams, had meant that Marianne had ever more cares to fill her time.

Besides all this, Marianne was still feeling not a little affronted at being put upon by one who might have had the greatest reason for asking her first for her approbation to this new scheme—the addition of that fourth child to the household—but on this topic her opinion had never been sought by Brandon. The orphaned boy's arrival had been announced the day before Brandon had gone to fetch him, and it had been taken as perfectly natural that the child should come to them.

Even should Marianne have had no peculiar feelings to cause her to reject such a proposal, the addition of a fourth child to the household could not but create ever more work for the servants, but indeed, she did have some very peculiar feelings which urged her to oppose the scheme. William Ansell Williams was the natural son of John Willoughby, a libertine, a rogue, and her first love—a man who had deceived her into giving her heart, then left her for the sake of money.

It had been five years since she had parted from Willoughby and four years since she had married her steadfast and dependable Brandon. Five years had been time enough to heal, and to forgive. But the fruit of Willoughby's wicked liaison with the young Beth Williams was now made an orphan, and her husband, his sense of duty unerring, had brought the poor child to Delaford, without more than a brief enquiry as to Marianne's feelings on the matter. Affronted at the lack of sensitivity afforded her by her husband, she had said nothing of her internal struggle, even though her feelings prohibited such an addition to their household.

Elinor and Mrs Dashwood, when they heard of the scheme, were shocked at first.

‘Can the dear Colonel be considering your feelings, my dear,' queried her mother warmly, ‘to suggest such a change of situation? The boy is to be pitied, no doubt, but surely your husband must be blinded by grief to suggest yourself as the surrogate mother of this child! Willoughby's child! It is beyond everything! You must urge him to reconsider!'

Elinor, too, was against such a scheme, although her response was more measured. ‘If you wish it, dearest, I shall speak privately to the Colonel, and urge him to consider your feelings, since you are the one who will be most affected by the child's coming to Delaford. I have seen how busy the Colonel is these days—perhaps he is not himself and therefore not sensible of the effects of this new circumstance upon you?'

‘No, I beg you will not speak to him!' Perceiving the sharpness of her own tone, Marianne softened. ‘I must fortify myself to the child's presence; indeed, how selfish, how wrong it would be for me to deny the boy a home, when to go to his father at Combe Magna is impossible. No, I shall learn to love the child, and he will never be made to feel unwelcome. He will be brought up as brother to my children. And neither Brandon, nor the boy, must ever hear anything of my struggles from yourselves. Nobody knows of his origins except ourselves. It must stay that way. He will be William Ansell to all who know us, the child of a distant cousin of our own whom we have taken on to help its mother. Promise me!'

‘You are too good, Marianne,' replied Elinor warmly, ‘your selflessness is a credit to you, although I hope it does not lead to your detriment! Nevertheless, we shall not speak of it again, will we, Mama? From your dearest friends, you will have nothing but our approbation and fondest regard. You may be assured of our silence.'

But Marianne was sensible that even had she outrightly and openly opposed such a scheme, it would have been fruitless to try to prevent it, for Brandon had had his heart set upon it. Marianne could understand why, since the boy's mother had been his ward since birth and akin to a daughter by right of affection, although there were no blood ties. Therefore, Marianne had been obliged by her own kind nature as much as by her loyalty to her husband to give no argument to the scheme. She had finally been brought to agree that the child, which by natural sentiment must be as dear to Brandon as his own grandchild, had best come to them at Delaford. Given the name "Ansell" to disguise his parentage, he would be brought up with their children, and taught a trade to see him into his adulthood.

And so William had come to them. Besides being a lively boy in general, and given to a great deal of noise, he had taken almost all of Brandon's time. The lad's recent loss had meant that Brandon had taken special care with the orphan to help him to settle in his new home, and to be so busy that his lost mama might not cause him to be more affected than need be. Brandon's time, once spent with Marianne and the children, was now taken up with the boy, and although she struggled to repress feelings of resentment, sometimes the thought that Brandon had forgotten her came to trouble her. But Marianne had finally learned prudence in her own unhappy dealings with the scoundrel Willoughby, and now she did not desire to raise a subject which would likely cause her husband pain.

Therefore, Marianne had said nothing of her hurt, and nothing of her increasing lowness of spirits, out of a deep affection for her husband and a natural sensitivity toward the child who had recently suffered a tragic loss. The child, thankfully, had inherited more of his mother's countenance than of his father's, and at least she was spared a daily visual reminder of a love she had once treasured. Colonel Philip Brandon had long since taken the place in her heart once occupied by another, but still, since the boy's arrival, she had struggled internally with the knowledge that the child she might have had with Willoughby, by some strange work of providence, now resided amongst them.

The extra workload created by his presence was to some degree relieved by their adding another maidservant and a tutor to their household, but Marianne still found the busyness of their household almost too much for her failing nerves. Sleep had begun to evade her, and her spirits had lagged. Still, she had laboured on, thankful for her sister's coming to them to help her with the two girls, while Brandon now spent all his spare time with his orphan protégé.

Margaret had perhaps been the only one to have noticed Marianne's increasing lassitude and had guessed her feelings regarding Brandon's imposing a sudden new family member upon them. She had sympathized with her sister when they had found a moment alone in the garden.

‘You look tired, Marianne,' Margaret had observed as they gathered flowers for the drawing room. ‘Perhaps you ought to have accepted Mrs Palmer's invitation to join them in town; you might have had some change of scenery and company. I would have been perfectly content to continue looking after Mama and the children—although I am sure you would miss them dreadfully!'

Marianne had been reproving. ‘I require neither change of scenery nor company, Meg! Where could I find better society than that to be found here at Delaford! Besides, there are Mama and the girls and little Philip to care for now.' She snipped another rose and added it to the growing basketful.

‘William is certainly a boisterous, lively boy. I think he has adjusted very well to his new home, but I am not blind, dear sister—a fourth child in the family has added a great deal of work, both for the servants and for you—you look so pale, and I see the dark circles around your eyes some days. All your former animation has quite gone at present. You surely cannot deny it!'

‘Indeed, I do deny it! If you think my animation gone, then you are mistaken, for I am quite in spirits, as much as I ever was. I am sure that a few nights of undisturbed sleep will restore me if anything appears lacking now,' Marianne added firmly. ‘I am not indisposed for the sake of a little extra work, for we have servants enough to help.'

‘I still don't understand why the boy cannot go to his natural father—it is not that I doubt my dear brother's judgement, but surely?—'

Marianne interrupted her sister. She spoke warmly. ‘William's father does not know of his son's existence, and you and Mama and Elinor are almost the only souls in the world who do. You must know very well that Willoughby could not acknowledge William as his own even should he wish it—it would ruin his reputation. And his marriage would be materially affected, since he already has an heir—a son by his wife.'

‘Yes, but what if Willoughby ever discovers that he has another son living—an heir to Combe Magna? Would he not wish to legitimise the boy and make him the heir?'

‘He cannot be allowed to discover it! My husband has decided that for William's own good it is better that he never knows his father—and that Willoughby never knows his son. Willoughby was told that the child died at birth, and that is how it must remain. To those who ask, the boy is merely the orphan child of one of my distant relations whom we have taken in as a kindness. The child will be told the same thing. It is for the best. His father can never recognise him as heir to Combe Magna. It would make things insufferably awkward for Mrs Willoughby, and I cannot, as much as I dislike the woman, deliberately be a cause of pain and suffering.'

‘Can not you?' Margaret gave her a long look.

‘I have long ago forgiven Willoughby,' Marianne replied, ‘and I am not vengeful, Meg.'

‘Of course you are not, Marianne! But do you not find it difficult to share a house with Willoughby's son? I can see the toll it is taking on you and I don't like to see you so out of spirits.' She added, ‘I wish the Colonel were more sensitive to your feelings. He oughtn't to have allowed the boy here at all, in deference to your feelings!'

‘Pray speak no ill of my husband. These are matters you are too young to understand. When you are married, Meg, you will comprehend how a marriage works, and then you will understand my decision.'

‘As I shall likely never marry, I perceive I shall never understand!'

‘I hope that you do marry,' replied Marianne archly. ‘Then you will see how things must be between a husband and wife.'

Margaret eyed her sister with doubt. ‘I did not mean to speak badly of our dear brother. But I see how unhappy you are. I think the Colonel is so much taken with William that he neglects his duties as a husband.' She paused then said gently, ‘You know I adore my brother, Marianne—Philip has been so very kind to Mama and me, allowing us to stay here while Mama convalesces—but it was not so long ago that he used to pay you every manner of care and attention, and now his time is so much taken up with William—I hardly see you together except at dinner and in the evenings sometimes—I cannot but wish to say something to him!'

‘Pray do not!' Marianne had turned to her sister, dropping her bundle of cut flowers into the basket rather sharply. ‘Perhaps it is true that my husband has been a little distracted of late, but he has suffered dreadfully with young Beth's passing. On that account, I shall hear no ill of Brandon, even though you did not, I am sure, mean anything of the kind.' She sighed again. ‘I cannot blame him for making every effort to distract William from his loss. I am certain that in time, perhaps a few more weeks, the boy will become more settled here, and dear Brandon will recover his spirits. Until then, we must both be strong. I cannot imagine how I should have done without you to help me with the girls, and to nurse Mama!'

‘So you forgive me? '

Marianne kissed her sister's cheek fondly. ‘Of course. Let us not talk of this again. And pray say nothing of this conversation to Mama or Elinor, for I would not wish to worry them with something which will resolve itself. Now, let us go into the hot house. The roses are blooming so beautifully, and you know how Mama loves them. Let us cut some for her room.'

Marianne had been grateful that Margaret had not mentioned the topic again, and after this conversation, she did her very best to appear in the liveliest of spirits so as not to cause anxiousness on the part of either of her sisters.

From then on, she had made much effort to appear more gay and lively at dinner, especially when Edward and Elinor were present, as they had a habit of dining at Delaford twice a week. However, despite her efforts, her spirits still flagged, and her complexion remained pale. To be obliged to be seen in spirits when she was feeling quite the reverse was something against her nature, for Marianne detested pretence of any kind, and had from a young age been outspoken and honest. However, time and experience had tempered her natural openness somewhat, and seeing now that to display her feelings, and to worry her sisters and mother, would do nothing to decrease her own discomfort but threaten theirs, she had learnt quickly the wisdom of concealing some of those emotions which she might once have given vent to.

It was, therefore, with a sigh of pleasure mixed with weariness that Marianne today had found an hour spare and had taken up her seat at the pianoforte. To play always lifted her spirits, her fondness for music as great as her affection for her family. To Marianne, the keys were her old friends. Now she rifled through her sheet music, selected a favourite piece and presently the moving strains of Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique drifted through the house.

She played through all three movements, paused, and then took up another piece of music. She had just raised her hands to the keyboard to begin the first bars of a new Clementi sonata, when she paused and turned towards the movement which had caught her eye. ‘Brandon!'

Brandon stood in the doorway, watching her. His white shirt was open at the neck, his dress informal, his breeches that of a working man rather than those of a gentleman. She thought him, even in that moment, excessively handsome. How she could have thought him "aged and infirm" once, she could not imagine. And how had she ever dared to imagine that his occasionally seeking the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat anything at all to do with being infirm or old!

Now his expression was inscrutable but she knew he was admiring her performance, although he almost never gave open praise. The Colonel was himself a fine pianist, which made him critical, although she did not mind. To share their love of music was something very dear to Marianne.

He advanced into the room. ‘I always love to hear you play the Beethoven.' He came to her and stood a moment at her shoulder, not quite touching her.

‘And I love to play it for you. How long have you been standing there?' she said accusingly, laughing a little. Her husband did not reply but went to the window and set his face toward the garden.

She sighed and cast him a quick side-glance. He did not move from the window and seemed sunk in his own thoughts. She began again to play, slowing as she came to a particularly difficult passage in the Clementi. ‘And how did you find Sir John?' asked she as her fingers moved over the keys. ‘You were gone for so long!'

‘Long?' replied her husband, turning from the garden. ‘I was hardly at Barton Park above an hour.' He paused a moment. ‘That sonata is coming along nicely,' he added absently. ‘Where are the girls?'

‘Margaret has taken them to the Parsonage to be entertained by their cousins. Teddie has been threatening to teach Eloise to sword-fight. Clara will no doubt be engaged as her second,' Marianne added drily. Here she could not but help a small smile. Elinor's children were as dear to her as her own. The Parsonage was only a short distance from Delaford, so the children walked there daily, and played there whenever Teddie and Imogen were not brought to the mansion house by Elinor.

‘Sword-fighting, is it?' Brandon smiled slightly. ‘A skill all females above the age of two years must be conversant in—at least if they are to defend themselves against attack from highway thieves like Teddie. He does like to tease them. I don't know how your sister manages.'

‘Which one?' she laughed. ‘Elinor and Meg are both so good with the children. Meg dotes on them and they adore her.' She did not add that both her sisters had more energy and spirits for managing two infants that she herself did these days. It was a source of shame to Marianne that she had come to prefer an empty room than to one with three lively children running about!

‘She is indeed a paragon,' replied Brandon drily. ‘I cannot imagine what we will do without her when your mother goes home to Barton Cottage in two weeks.'

Neither could Marianne, given how much she had come to rely upon her younger sister, but she did not say as much. ‘Mama is quite well now. I suppose they must go, but it is a great pity that Barton Park is not an easy distance. We must send the carriage for Margaret as often as we can, if Mama can do without her.'

‘Certainly, by all means.' The Colonel now walked to the window again as if he was restless, and gazed from it for a moment. Marianne paused her playing. She yearned to go to him, as she once would have, and yet imperceivably, she felt his withdrawal into his own world, and did not know how to penetrate his growing aloofness. She cast around for another way to entice him into conversation. ‘You did not answer me before; how did you find Sir John and Lady Middleton?'

‘In health, as always. Mrs Jennings is in high spirits for she is to go to visit two months with her daughter, Mrs Palmer, in town. You would not have enjoyed town, I think, if you had gone up. I perceive you still avoid Mrs Jennings as much as you can.'

‘I would have gone with you today but for I could not have borne her incessant chatter. I know she means well, and is very kind at heart, but I am much better off here. When did you say she quits Barton?'

‘The day after tomorrow. We are invited to dine tomorrow night, before she leaves. I could not decline as we did not go last week. Do keep playing. I interrupted you.' He made to leave the room but she stopped him.

‘Do you remember how you used to join me and we played duets? It has been many months since you sat with me at the pianoforte. Let us play together now!' she pleaded.

His look was one of discomfort and embarrassment. He said awkwardly, ‘Forgive me, Marianne. I have some business to attend. I shall leave you to your instrument.'

He had turned to go but she said, ‘Oh, but will not you stay just a moment more?'

‘Is there something else?'

He turned back, almost reluctantly, she thought. ‘Are you unwell, dearest?'

‘Not at all.' He moved toward the door. ‘I shall see you at dinner. Perhaps you will play for us all this evening.'

‘Wait!'

Brandon looked exceedingly grave, but as gravity was his default, and a solemn face was as regular with him as animated looks and conversation were naturally with Marianne, she did not think anything amiss there. It had been his tone, which heretofore had always been warm, and the barometer by which she had always been able to ascertain his affections for her. These days the barometer was becoming increasingly cooler and more formal. ‘What is it, Brandon? Will you not confide in me?' Her tone was imploring. ‘What is the matter?'

‘Nothing. There is nothing the matter.' His tone was impatient. He stepped away a little and made to quit the room. ‘I must go and see if William is finished with his tutor.'

‘Good heavens!' cried Marianne, before she could contain herself. ‘This continuance of aloofness—this undeserved coldness—I can hardly account for it! You are not yourself, these days. Even Margaret has noticed it! Is it something to do with the Delaford estate? It is not money, is it?'

While Marianne had learned quickly to become a most prudent housekeeper, she had always been assured that the Delaford estate brought them in more than enough to comfortably support a family of five and to make the lives of the two remaining inhabitants of Barton Cottage more comfortable than they had ever dared to hope. Still, with the arrival of William and the engagement of a tutor for his education, and two new servants engaged to help with the extra workload, Marianne wondered if perhaps the estate was not able to cope with these additional costs.

‘There is nothing the matter, I assure you. Certainly not money. I am perhaps a little tired, that is all.'

Marianne now stood up from the pianoforte, in some doubtful concern, and took a faltering step toward her husband. She wanted to cry out in vexation. Brandon, tired? Did he know how she had been feeling these last few months? Did he not notice her pallor? But she could not tax him with her cares when he had so many of his own. She took his hand gently. ‘Have I offended you in some way, then? Is it me you are cross with? Or perhaps having my mother and sister here disturbs your privacy? Your nerves, perhaps, suffer for the noise of so much activity? Mama can go to Elinor for a few days, if you wish it—and she and Margaret will soon quit Delaford for Barton Cottage again now that she is grown stronger.'

He smiled and kissed her hand with enough affection to cause her to immediately reprove herself silently for her unjust thoughts. ‘How could two of the people most dear to me next to my own family ever disturb me? You know how devoted I am to your mother.'

‘Then you put me in some alarm of your not being in health, or—or perhaps you have cares and worries that you will not share with me, and that grieves me more than anything! Am I not your wife, the mother of your children? Can I not afford you some comfort in your troubles?'

He dropped her hand and said curtly, ‘I am quite in health, Marianne. I am a little tired—that is all. If I have been remiss in my attentions to you, or given any offence to your sister, I am truly sorry for it.' His tone was cool.

She was stung. ‘No! There has been no offence on your part! Only—will you not confide in me? Have we not been the closest companions in the last four years? Do we not share with each other every care and every joy? I know you suffer Beth's death without speaking of it—but perhaps you ought to speak of it more, if only to me!'

‘I have no intention of hiding anything from you, Marianne.' His tone was brusque. ‘I may have more business than I care to undertake at present, but there is nothing to alarm, I assure you. I am not unduly affected by Beth's passing—I have no particular feelings on the matter to oppress me, beside a natural and passing grief.'

Marianne, inclined to think him concealing his grief for her benefit, said nothing more of it. ‘Then I shall not press you for more. Elinor and Edward will be here soon. I must go up and dress, and I shall see you at dinner.'

Her husband, kissing her cheek briefly, left the room.

Marianne stood a moment, perplexed and distraught. ‘I will not be weak, I will be strong like Elinor.' She sat back down at her instrument, but instead of taking up her music, she leaned once again upon her arms, in a moment of despair. ‘Surely whatever is passing between Brandon and me will not keep us apart forever. Perhaps this lowness of spirits is sewing evil into my mind,' she thought to herself. ‘I must allow him some time to adjust. It is, after all, a great undertaking to keep a grieving child distracted. I have been unjust in my thoughts. I will be more like Elinor, dear, sensible Elinor!'

These thoughts completed, she wearily lifted herself from the seat, and went to dress for dinner, determined to be as animated and cheerful as she could all evening, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of Elinor and Edward.