Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

W hen she knocked at the front door of Harley-street and was let in by the footman, Margaret was informed that the Palmers had gone out, but that Mrs Brandon was in the drawing room. Margaret was met at once by Marianne.

Margaret at once apprised her sister of the events of the previous day. ‘I could not agree, Marianne, to marry him, not before I had spoken to you and Elinor, and to Mama.'

‘And what does John think?' asked Marianne, grateful to be taken for a while from her own cares and concerns, and to enter into those of a beloved sister. ‘Surely he knows this Mr Ambrose better than anyone—should his opinion not be counted on the most?'

‘Of course!' cried Margaret warmly. ‘John has been—oh, so very kind to me since I have come to stay with him and Fanny—but I believe he cannot think like a woman, and only sees the match as advantageous for our family—but can he care for what a heart thinks and speaks, Marianne? Can a man judge love and attachment as anything but a business transaction? '

‘Can a woman see anything but her own feelings and judge a matter by anything other than her romantic notions?' countered Marianne warmly. ‘You must look on both sides, dearest, for the answer, for marriage was never only an affair of the heart, when undertaken by women who have no fortune to supply their future happiness!'

‘This from you!' cried Margaret, ‘when you yourself have been caught up in wild romantic notions over a man who would have married you but for your poverty!'

‘Yes, but I did not marry him! My own foolish notions of romance had to be tempered with those of sense, and it led me to—to my dear Brandon!'

Margaret smiled. ‘That is true enough,' she replied. ‘But I hardly know if I love Mr Ambrose or esteem him as—as a gentleman most fascinating! He is so worldly, Marianne, and I believe he could give me a life that I would be happy with—but I feel it is wrong to marry without affection, and I hardly know if I truly feel real affection for him.'

Marianne, barely able to speak on the topic comfortably when her own marriage was in question, could not be her advisor, but she urged Margaret to write to her mother for wise counsel before making her final decision.

‘All I can tell you, dearest Meg, is that when you meet the man who is right for you, and whom will make you the happiest of creatures, neither his fortune nor his face will matter to you—it will feel to you as if he is your air, your sun, your food and drink! If such a man has come into your life, then you ought to marry him without delay.' She smiled. ‘And that is about as wildly romantic as I will wax on such a topic, for love once made me its fool, and perhaps I still am! I dare not wish you to become a fool, but to remain sensible in the face of love, if that is what it is. And if you do not know your own mind, at least know your own heart, that voice inside us that guides us all as if a friend, so that its clarity, its strength, will become your torch in the darkest of days.' Her voice trembled.

‘Oh Marianne, I hope so much for you and dear Philip. Your love for him will carry you to him in the end, it must!'

‘And in the meantime I must rely on the sensible strength of my love for my husband to carry me though dark days indeed! You shall not feel sorry for me Meg, so be a dear and don't look so at me! Brandon will return from France, and I will know the truth. I am not afraid!'

Marianne made her departure for Delaford soon after this meeting, and although Margaret's heart was full to see her go, she hoped that a return to all that was familiar might bring her sister some comfort, some peace of mind while she waited for her husband to return.

The weather continued cold, and the rest of the week passed in a blur of engagements, at none of which she saw Mr Ambrose. Was she disappointed? The felicity of being an object of adoration by a man whom was considered the most eligible gentleman in town was seductive, and the life that he offered her was not to be easily put aside. He was well-travelled, and perhaps would take her away with him—the idea of perhaps seeing the continent, or even Africa or the West indies, she owned was as seductive as the gentleman himself.

The end of the week approached, and Margaret was eager to hear from her mother. Each day she awaited a letter, and finally, on the Friday morning, two letters, sent by the two-penny post, were beside her plate at breakfast. One was in her mama's handwriting, and the other from Elinor.

Fanny, who had sent her disapproving glances all week, now urged her mildly to take them away and read them and Margaret did so, but took them only as far as the little parlour .

Opening the one with Elinor's handwriting first, she began to read.

I hope, my dearest Meg, that you will excuse me for intruding upon your happiness at Harley-street, for we have received your letter, and Marianne, who has been home for two days now, has given us a good account of your descriptions of Mr Ambrose, and I am beyond happiness for you, if you do indeed love the gentleman of whom you speak so highly. I would give you my advice, dearest, with all my heart, to search your own, and be very certain that this is the man whom you think will make you happiest in all the world—and under no circumstances, except without a doubt of his being a gentleman of good character and disposition, give your consent to a union. However, dear sister, if he is the light of your eye, if he is unswerving in his devotion, even be it quiet and restrained, let your consent be given.

If, however, you feel that his withdrawn nature and lack of spirit, as you called it, be an obstacle to your respecting him as your husband, then think hard my dear sister upon consenting to perhaps what would in time become an unhappy union, for it would be better to remain single and in the care of your friends at Delaford and Barton, than to be trapped in a union which you may come to regret bitterly. I have been lucky in partners, for in Edward I have the very best of men, and if this Mr Ambrose has one tenth of his character and devotion, then your heart must be your guide.

I have given you my thoughts, as prejudiced for marriage as they seem, since I am so happy in my own, but there is another reason, Meg, that I have spoken of these things first. Unhappy news must always be given after a dose of honey, so that it will not be so unpleasantly received!

Edward and I received news yesterday and it was not good news, I am afraid. Edward's investment has turned sour. Three ships were lost to a storm all together, and we have lost Edward's capital. Something to do with the company having to be liquidated. There was not enough to pay back all the investors and Edward's sum is lost.

Pray do not be anxious, Meg, for Edward and myself are quite resigned to the loss, and for myself was so almost five minutes after the shock of receiving the news. Being poor is not new to me, although I fear it is to dear Edward, who has been used to every comfort. Even so, we will have enough to survive upon just as well as we ever did. And with the Colonel's great kindnesses to us we shall not want for anything we need. Mama will not suffer, for Sir John looks after her so very particularly, and the Colonel too. Therefore, it is only a small alteration to our hopes and dreams, rather than to our material circumstances, to which we now must become inured.

Say, my dear sister, that you are in no way made anxious for us, for that would only increase my unhappiness. As it is, I am more sorry for poor Edward, and his mother's wasted inheritance, than I am for myself. We shall rally and do very well on the living from Delaford parish, and Edward will learn to be content again with nothing less than we had expected to live upon when we were married, which was deemed sufficient then. He is at present doing his best to appear in spirits, and believe this week's sermon will be on the value of seeking riches of the heavenly kind! In labouring at this topic, I suspect he may find some kind of resolution and peace in our situation.

Marianne has returned safely, and is well enough, but I know that she puts on a good display for me, for she spends much of her time in her room, or at the piano, playing tunes most melancholy. The little girls are alive with happiness to have their cherished mama home with them again and baby Philip goes on very well and gives no trouble. Poor Marianne makes a greater effort to hold him and comfort him, and now that he is smiling and recognising everyone, I perceive that he can cheer her a little with his chubby little giggles and smiles. God willing, all that is needed now is the Colonel, to make us just as we once were, all content together! Pray for us all, dearest Meg!

Mama is very well and promises a visit next week. Sir John will bring her in his carriage, and he has promised us a large basket of crab apples from the orchard…

Margaret did not have the heart to continue on with tidings from Barton. She dropped the letter and proceeded to cry her heart out, for the news of Elinor and Edward's loss must affect both herself and Marianne, even more now that she and Marianne were quite aware that all was not well at Delaford. If the Colonel had met with some kind of material difficulty regarding Delaford, perhaps his own income was not as assured as he had thought. In that case, Elinor and Edward would perhaps be unable to rely upon the Colonel's "kindnesses" and poor Mama would be entirely dependent upon the goodness of Sir John!

The scene which played out before her, that of both her sisters living in less happy circumstances than that which they had been given to expect, made her very grave. Poor Elinor! And with the baby soon to be born, bringing in its dear innocence, an additional burden to their household!

Presently, when her eyes were dry again, she took up her mother's letter, which was merely a repetition of Elinor's, first with a plea for Margaret to consider none but her own feelings when making her decision, and then to relate about Elinor and Edward what Margaret already knew. She put the paper down and wiped yet another tear from her eye.

At this moment, John entered the drawing room, looking very grave indeed. He took a seat beside his sister. ‘I have just heard,' said he with great compassion, ‘of the troubles of my sister and Edward. Yes, we have had a letter from Edward at the same time, just this morning. It gives Fanny a great deal of pain to discover the loss of such a large sum given by Mrs Ferrars, you know. She is so upset by the great loss of her mother's inheritance, that she has gone to lie down for the morning. Such a waste of seven thousand pounds!'

Margaret, ashamed for Fanny and even more so for her brother, was silent, for nothing would induce her to remark on the unfeeling Fanny's concern for the loss of the money, over the reduced circumstance of Elinor and Edward, now expecting their third child. Fanny thought only of herself, Margaret thought in some astonishment and realized that she had previously misjudged Fanny as well meaning. But she would not say as much to John.

‘It is so very unfortunate,' she agreed forlornly, ‘and I feel very much for poor Edward, who had such hopes for the money when they realized their investments. But all is not lost of Mr Ferrars' fortune, John, for I believe they retained a few hundred pounds and still have the interest from that. Elinor seems to be quite resigned to it already. It is astonishing that such a risk should be taken, but I suppose these things happen in business. Only, I did not suppose the investment to be such a terrible risk,' she added, unhappily.

‘I myself am quite shocked, for I believed Mr Claymore's company to be quite solid—a great thing indeed that I had not seen fit to invest!—a great loss to Edward however—I had thought his business to be quite secure—I would not have thought of such a risk, myself,' replied John, and Margaret looked at him in horror.

‘Mr Claymore? Whatever do you mean?'

‘Why, my dear sister, did you not know that Edward had bought into Mr Claymore's marine insurance company?'

‘No!' Margaret was pale. ‘Then it is he who is responsible for Edward's loss! '

‘Responsible? I hardly think that is fair, when they were both taking the risk.'

‘Yes, I suppose you are right. John, I am rather curious—how did the connection between Mr Claymore and Mr Ambrose come about?'

‘Oh, Ambrose himself is merely a silent partner in the undertaking.'

Again, Margaret's astonishment was great. ‘Mr Ambrose?' cried she. ‘Mr Ambrose is a silent partner in Mr Claymore's business?'

‘Indeed, yes—I thought you knew, my dear. He took over when the other partner died—loaned a large sum of money to Mr Claymore, I believe—but none of this is his fault, of course—rather a victim himself, I fancy, for he would have taken a loss himself—but these marine insurance companies risk too much, in my opinion—a ship may be lost at sea and then another, and another, and when all your payouts come at once, how is it possible to satisfy all the creditors? A storm, a gale, I am told, which took three vessels at once, proved to be too much for the company, and it has lost the capital invested. Terrible business, terrible!'

‘But I don't understand,' uttered Margaret at some pains to understand what had happened. ‘Do you mean that the company was only prepared to lose one or two vessels? That it had not the funds to pay out three at once?'

‘Why yes, I believe that is the sum of it,' replied John. ‘Individual investors underwrite insurances with their own blunt—and that is where investors like Edward come into the picture, as capital is always required to ensure a payout, even though the risk of such a disaster is calculated as being a lowish sort. There is a little risk, for the captain only gets paid if he gets his cargo safely to port! But when by terrible misfortune, two or three vessels are lost altogether, there is not enough capital left to repay the investors, and if there is anything remaining, it goes first to the Captain or the interested party who took out the insurance. If the company does not have a sum set aside for such a situation, or there is not enough, such as with a newish company like Mr Claymore's, investors lose money. It is most unfortunate, but your brother knew the risks associated with such a venture.'

‘I wonder he took such risks!' cried Margaret.

‘Marine insurance is based on agreed levels of uncertainty, my dear. The owner of the vessel and the shippers of the cargo know where the vessel is supposed to go, but they don't know exactly where it is or what it is doing at any moment. Neither do the insurers. And no one but God can control the weather. That is why a storm is called an act of God, you know! There is a certain risk, even though it might be considered low, for all involved. It was a grave misfortune that all three ships were sunk, but considering they were all laden with their cargo of coffee beans, coming from the same port, travelling together for safety—these are the risks, I am afraid,' explained her brother.

‘I see,' said Margaret unhappily. ‘And Mr Ambrose had nothing at all to do with Edward's loss?'

‘How could he? Although Mr Ambrose does not want for fortune, I daresay he has suffered a great loss of his own money in taking the same risk as did your brother.'

‘How dreadful! I am very sorry indeed, for both of them! But all the more for Edward—Elinor bears it very well, but they are expecting a child and cannot have wanted the income from their investment more!'

‘Indeed, indeed,' replied her brother, ‘and that is just what I wish now to speak to you about, Margaret. I think you must be conscious of the responsibility you now must feel yourself obliged to take up, with regard to the future of your sister, and our mother.'

Margaret was, indeed, aware of it, and she was in agony that she would now be obliged to make a decision regarding Mr Ambrose, not to satisfy her own inclinations, but to ensure the wellbeing of her family.

‘You must not be selfish, my dear,' admonished John solemnly, ‘but you have it in your power to do some good, and I think that you cannot be unaware of the importance of your answer to Mr Ambrose tomorrow. You can be quite assured that despite his own recent and heavy loss, that he is not in want of fortune and has the power to make you and your family most comfortable, should they require such assistance. His devotion to you is evident, my dear sister, so that I shall not scruple to say that I am quite satisfied to give my consent to a union between you.'

Margaret, hearing the advice she knew that he would give under the circumstances, was now brought low. Over the course of that week, with the advice of her mother and beloved sisters sounding in her ears, she had decided against accepting Mr Ambrose, despite the disappointment it would give John and Fanny. She liked him very much—he fascinated her more than any gentleman ever had—but she could not forget Marianne's words—he was not "her sun, her air, her food and her drink."

Perhaps, given time, she would feel this way about him—and she was sure that if she accepted his offer, that she would come to love him in time. But it was wicked, she had always been taught, to marry without love, and she could not have brought herself to do such a thing—if her own inclinations were all that she had to consider. But these new developments changed the situation indeed.

She sighed. ‘If I can help my sister and Edward in any way, John, you know I would put her own happiness above my own. If Fanny will be so good as to allow me to remain in my room for dinner this evening, I am certain that I shall have a reply for Mr Ambrose by the time he is to call tomorrow.'

John Dashwood was all condescension and affection. ‘My dear sister! I have no doubt of your doing exceedingly well as Mrs Charles Ambrose, and you need not have any anxiety that you will give him embarrassment, for I perceive your country manners have already given way to a more lady-like demeanour, and I have not seen your gloves or hat removed once where it was not appropriate. I fancy Fanny has made a young lady of you, and I myself am very proud of you. Now, I shall leave you to your thoughts, and say not a word more on the subject!'

Margaret, with a heavy heart, could not find it her heart to reply to these pompous condescensions and went upstairs with her letters to sit at her window for a long time.