Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

‘ T eddie! Stop teasing Clara at once. Give me the doll.' Margaret's tone was firm. She held out a smooth white palm and took the doll which a sulking Teddie had relinquished.

Margaret restored the toy to its blue-eyed owner, and took the two-year old Clara upon her knee. Eloise, the older of the two sisters at three years, was on the nursery floor with her cousin, Imogen, where they were playing at giving tea to Imogen's dolls.

Teddie now took his wooden spinning top from the toy chest and began at once to send it in a little ‘bzzzzz' along the wooden floor, until it stopped spinning and dropped hopelessly like a worn-out bee, to its side. ‘Papa says he will buy me a new spinning top when he next goes to town,' he informed his aunt proudly. The boy was the image of his father, with light brown hair falling into his brown eyes, and the same strong nose. His mouth, however, was Elinor's, and now the full pink lips firmed, challenging anyone to counter his hopes.

‘Then you had better behave yourself, Teddie, and don't tease your cousin again! Come, Clara-boo, let's read a story book. Then I must take you and Eloise home.'

‘No stowy! Teddie go ‘way,' replied Clara with zest, pulling Margaret's hair where it had tumbled from its untidy knot. These days it was invariably caught up in a dark chignon and from which long, straight strands always managed to escape, despite her mother's daily insistence on the use of curling tongs and rosemary-water.

‘Oh, you are a little minx, aren't you!' exclaimed her aunt, extracting hair from the little white fist. ‘I perceive you don't like to share, young lady, but Teddie wasn't trying to take Dollie, he was just playing—oh, Elinor!'

Elinor had appeared in the open doorway, her apron tied awkwardly around her green muslin morning dress. Strands of chestnut hair, not quite as straight as Margaret's, also escaped the neat bun at her nape, and her hands were slightly dusted with a fine coating of flour. There was flour on her apron too. Beneath this serviceable attire, a slight roundness beneath her gown was now becoming more obvious, and her condition had only increased the rosiness of her skin and the brightness of her eyes.

‘Mrs Bates and I are almost done with the game pies. You had best take Clara and Eloise home, Meg, as it is almost four. Bessie will be up in a minute to take Imogen for her bath—oh, here she is now!'

Bessie, a young girl with a surprising air of motherly efficiency, bustled in around Elinor's form. ‘I'll take young Mr Edward and Miss Imogen now, Ma'am, and give ‘em both their bath and their dinner. Miss Imogen, you'll never guess what Cook has made you and young Mr Edward for your sweet!'

Imogen abandoned her tea set at once. ‘Is it pink?' she asked, her blue eyes lighting up.

‘It is indeed, Miss Imogen, and if you are a good girl, and eat all your dinner, you shall see what it is! Don' that sound nice, Mr Edward?'

Teddie scoffed. ‘I already know what it is, and I shan't eat it! It's a pink blancmange shaped like a doll. I already saw it. It's a girl's dessert!' he added in disgust. ‘I will only eat it if it's a ship or a soldier! I'm going to be a solider when I grow up!'

‘You are not obliged to eat any dessert at all, dear, if you don't want it,' laughed Elinor. ‘In fact, I am persuaded that no dessert at all might have a very beneficial effect on you!'

‘I suppose I might eat it then, if it's not so very pink,' recanted Teddie quickly. Kissing their mama, both children were now led away by the nursemaid to their baths, and Margaret stood and swung Clara to her hip. ‘Come Eloise, we must go home for your bath and dinner. Tidy the tea set away, dearest, won't you?'

While the little girl obediently tidied away the toys, Margaret turned to Elinor and said quietly, ‘I wished to consult you on something. I am in some anxiety about Marianne—do not you think her a little paler than usual, and in want of her usual animation?'

‘Is she?' replied Elinor in some astonishment. ‘Would not you be, with three little ones to care for and more than a fair share of duties as the patroness of Delaford?'

‘By no means,' replied Margaret promptly, ‘for I do not suffer as she does, and I have taken at least half of her work from her by managing the two upstairs maids myself, and I have had charge of the children far more often than she, these past three months! Besides, you manage very well, and you have just as many children, and almost as much work, since you have not the servants that Delaford has.'

Elinor was startled. ‘Suffer? Then you truly think her unwell? I concede that Marianne's health has always been a little delicate, ever since the fever which almost took her life five years ago. But she is young, and marriage has been good to her these last four years. Besides suffering occasional fatigue, she has given her friends no significant reason for concern. Why would she give into ill health now?'

‘I cannot tell you, except that she sometimes seems low in spirits and she is listless much of the time. Why, yesterday, she sat in the morning room for half an hour after we all finished breakfast, and I happened upon her only because I stopped in to retrieve a book I had left on the table, and she didn't hear me speak to her until I said her name twice. It is not like her.'

‘If she were ill, I am sure she would never conceal such a thing from us—especially from Mama.'

‘I am with Marianne more than you are, Elinor, and therefore am in a position to observe more…perhaps she is not ill , exactly, but I am almost sure that our sister is not in perfect health—to my eye she looks quite pale and is these days quieter than usual. But perhaps you are so busy with your own household that you do not notice that Marianne has been suffering these last few months—at least as long as William has been with them.'

Elinor, upon hearing this information, gave Margaret every proof of her sisterly devotion by the expression of amazement and solicitous concern, and promised Margaret that she would speak to Marianne herself that evening after dinner. Then she added, ‘You may be right—there is so much more for her to do, now that the boy has come to live with them, and she has had Mama to care for as well, although you do much of the work, but there are all her own duties as mistress of Delaford.' She sighed. ‘I have been so busy with my own cares—you put me to shame for not having noticed—but has not the Colonel commanded her to rest more?'

‘I hate to reprove him, but he seems not to have noticed that Marianne suffers any ill effects at all. And yet William's presence must be a trial to her. Dear Philip is so—so— distracted , these days. I would bring it to his attention but I dare not give offence!'

‘I am sure the Colonel has many cares and duties himself, it is no wonder he is distracted. But remember, as much as we may feel anxiety for Marianne's health, as to any neglect I am certain he is as attentive to her as ever. He has never failed to display an earnest and tender affection for Marianne—there is no reason to think he neglects her now. I feel it would be very wrong to reproach him with such a judgement. And you know Marianne would forbid it.'

‘Then I would not for the world do such a thing, and perhaps I am mistaken about Marianne—she did say she was only lacking sleep.'

‘It was a great pity she did not go to town with the Palmers—I am sure she would have benefitted from even a fortnight's rest from her duties at Delaford.'

‘I suppose she could not contemplate a month away from the children—especially dear little Philip. I'm sure I could never consider it!'

‘Yes,' smiled Elinor, ‘but when you have several children of your own, Meg, you will think quite differently about a rest from them than you do now!'

‘Perhaps,' replied Margaret laughing, ‘when they number above nine or ten, I'm sure I shall be as ready for even a se'en night in town as the best of mothers! Until then, I am certain I would wish to spend all my time with them. I should never be tired of them!'

Elinor laughed indulgently, for her sister was as impractical and impulsive as she was warm and affectionate. ‘Well, I am glad you adore the children so well, for we have not been able to do without your help these last months. I shall miss you when you and Mama return to Barton!'

Margaret returned to the Great House by way of the path which connected the two residences, taking care her nieces did not fall into the canal which adjoined the walking path. At the wooden bridge where their path crossed over the brook and led up to house, near the Colonel's stew ponds, the little girls were of a habit to run and look for the large, ancient toad who lived in the riverbank, and then when they had satisfied their interest in the old amphibian, to bring some of the cold water up to their faces to wash.

These ablutions completed hastily, aided by their aunt, the giggling little girls ran ahead through the high-walled garden, into the open courtyard, and in through the back door of the grand house. Here they were met and ushered inside by old Nanny Stevens, while Margaret came up behind them, and seeing the little girls disappearing in the house, she stopped at the round stone dovecote, a favourite place of hers at Delaford.

The pigeons which were housed there now cooed and fluttered, settling in for the night. She spent a moment to talk in a low voice to her favourite birds, and then turned to take in the view of the valley behind her. The light was failing fast now, and the air had cooled. Autumn was almost upon them, and she and Mama would return to Barton Park in only another week, after having spent the summer at Delaford, her mother convalescing nicely and herself being of great use, she hoped, to both her sisters. She sighed.

She thought of this removal from Delaford with dissatisfaction—indeed, to think upon it at all was the admission of every melancholy idea. Barton Cottage, which had been her home for the past six years, while dear to her, had ceased to give her the pleasure it once had. It was true she loved to range along its hills, to walk barefoot on the grass and breathe in the salty ocean air. But her spirit had grown in parallel with her physical form, in the last two years.

At fifteen she had been content to find companionship and amusement in their small, dull lives at Barton, attending her mother, learning French and needlework, and becoming more useful in the daily running of their small household. But at eighteen her mind had begun to range so restlessly beyond the little domestic cares which dominated their lives at the cottage, so that her yearning to see a little of the world had become a fire within; to return to their quiet, invariable life now that she had enjoyed the expanded horizons of a summer at Delaford, and its wider circle of society, dismayed her as much as the pangs of guilt she experienced at her disloyal thoughts.

The circumstance of their being fixed at Delaford for almost three months straight had been both a balm and a bane. Since Colonel Brandon and Marianne were fond of visitors, and Brandon was so well respected and well connected, there had been enough society at Delaford House to afford Margaret all the informed and interesting conversation that she craved, but the change had taught her to want for things she had never desired before, and now the difficulty of leaving all this behind her was at the forefront of her thoughts.

Although she had a great fondness for long intervals of solitude in the surrounds of Barton, or at home in their garden, when she amused herself by immersing herself in books on travel and geography, she loved just as much to converse—or at least to be where others were conversing. Nothing gave her so much pleasure as to broaden all her own ideas, and in doing so to feel as if she had lived a little less confined as she was by the walls of Barton, and to a lesser degree, the walls of England.

She had been very much disappointed that Mrs Palmer's recent invitation to Marianne had not been extended to include herself, although she hid her feelings well for the sake of not giving offence to her mother. Despite her dislike of confining costumes and having to fit into the mould the larger world required, she would very much have liked to go to London even for a fortnight—she had never been! But of course, her help was very much relied upon by Mama, who had only just regained her health. Now that her sisters were much taken up by their own cares and their own households, Mrs Dashwood had come to depend upon her youngest daughter more than ever. Being naturally an affectionate and loving daughter, Margaret had not once considered offending her Mama by asking to go, but still, she yearned for the stimulation which was now lacking at Barton.

She turned from her reverie and entered the door which led into the back of the Great House, and went to her own chamber to dress for dinner. For a moment, she wished very much that Marianne might be a little less wrapped up in her own affairs so as to notice her growing reluctance to return to Barton, and then just as quickly reproached herself for being unfair to her sister. She would return to Barton Cottage and be content. Mama was now recovered enough for them to take some of their favourite long walks before the weather grew much colder, and of course, they would be frequently invited to dine with the Middletons; these small pleasures were the extent of what Barton had to offer and must suffice. Perhaps if Mrs Palmer thought to invite her, she might go to London next year instead. With these thoughts to buoy her as much as it was possible, she dressed herself for dinner, stays and shoes obediently arranged, and having time to spare, went to help her mother.

Mrs Dashwood, having left her place on the sofa in the drawing room, was being attended by Marianne's maid, who having helped the older lady dress, was being shooed away. ‘Thankyou Stern, but I am quite capable of doing my own hair. Here is Margaret to help me, you see!'

Margaret watched the maid from the room and took up her mama's ivory hairbrush and began to work on Mrs Dashwood's hair. It was now not without its strands of silver, but Mrs Dashwood's appearance, even at the age of nine and forty, remained handsome enough to inspire admiration among her friends.

Margaret now began to arrange the dark tresses. ‘How thin your hair has become, Mama. I will try to arrange it so that it looks thicker.'

‘It was the illness, my love, but as I am not at all prone to vanity, and it is only my family who see me these days, I own I have little care about it. Now, I have something to tell you.' She brought out a paper from her pocket and opened it up. Margaret could see it was a letter.

Mrs Dashwood was eager. ‘I received this from Fanny today. Can you imagine what it says?'

Margaret laughed. ‘How could I, Mama? I confess I can hardly guess, for Fanny never writes to us. It must be something remarkable, I collect, for her to think of writing to you. I hope no one has lately died!'

Mrs Dashwood was exultant. ‘My dear, it seems your brother has had a good influence over Fanny, for you will never guess the object of her writing!'

‘I confess I am astonished at Fanny's writing at all—but I see you wish to tell me and I have no objection to forfeiting a guess,' laughed Margaret.

‘You have been invited to Norland, my dear girl!' announced her mother. ‘And then to town when John and Fanny go up for the season! They will stay at least three months in Harley-street. Did you ever hear of anything so peculiar, and yet, there is no doubt at all, for it is here, in writing—you may read it yourself! Oh, whatever shall we do with your gowns,' Mrs Dashwood added in happy dismay, ‘for you must have new ones—your old ones will not do at all!'

‘Fanny has invited me to Norland?' repeated Margaret in astonishment, taking up the letter.

‘Indeed, she has, my love. Read the letter for yourself, if you like.'

Margaret was at first excited with a very stirring gratitude. As much as she did not hold any peculiar regard for her sister-in-law, she was fond of her brother John, for he had always been kind to her. She would very much like to go! To spend some time with John, and see dear Norland again, would certainly be wonderful! And a season in town, when she had just been regretting their impending departure back to their every-day existence at Barton! To go to John and Fanny would be just the change she yearned for. She would like it above all things!

But to go was impossible. She tried to keep disappointment from her tone and said quite evenly, ‘Mama, I cannot possibly go, even should I wish to. We return to Barton next week. Who will look after you? Who will help the servants? It is truly very kind of John and Fanny, but I don't see how it would be possible,' she added with a yearning sigh.

‘Don't think of me , child,' cried her mama, ‘when here is such an opportunity as likely will not come again! I am sure I can do without you very well, with the servants and dear Sir John always ready to serve. Pray do not forget I am but a short distance from Barton and Lady Middleton is always happy to see me.'

Margaret could not but help laugh at this. ‘Mama! I know very well how you dislike Lady Middleton. Do not you think after but one evening in her company you will be wishing you had not thrown yourself at the mercy of the Middletons? I own Sir John is so sincerely kind one cannot but be glad to be in his company, but you know you talk of his wife's cold insipidity every time we dine there! And the children are so vigorous that you always come away with a headache,' she added with a smile.

‘No, indeed, I do not, not every time, and I am sure I shall bear Lady Middleton's grim demeanour and noisy children if I can think of you gone to be happy at Norland! Sir John, I am sure, will send for me to Barton most every day, just as he always does, and I shall be content, my dear.'

Margaret began at some other argument, convinced her mother would not be happy to lose her for so long a time, but her mama would brook no more of these excuses. ‘No, you will not persuade me, for I've quite set my heart upon you going,' she added firmly. ‘It will be no inconvenience to me at all. I have Thomas and Hannah at home to do for me what you would do—you see, they will have half the work they usually do, for your not being present will relieve them of half their cares! You have been such a good nurse to me these many months, that you must give in and say you will go, if only to please me!'

Margaret, under the influence of this most sincere pleading of her dearest friend in the world, was unable to deny her mother this command, and gave in with gratitude. ‘Dear Mama!' She kissed her mother tenderly upon the cheek. ‘I confess, I would like to see dear Norland above anything! And to have a season in town! To see the world when I have seen so little of it!'

‘Town is hardly "the world" dear one,' said Mrs Dashwood, laughing, ‘but you ought to have some time in the company of others, surely.'

‘And although I care not for Fanny, John is always very kind to me. I dare not offend them by a refusal!' Margaret knew herself to be considered by Fanny as a mere half-sister to John, although they had enjoyed an equal share of the love of their father.

‘Then it is settled. We shall tell everybody tonight at dinner, and ask the Colonel to send you by his own carriage. I know he will not mind!'

To this, Margaret did not reply, for now she was reminded of Marianne, and wondered if she ought to relinquish her adventure, for the sake of her sister, who may be in need of her help at Delaford yet. But she would consult with Elinor—if her sister thought anything seriously amiss with Marianne, she would surely counsel Margaret not to go to Norland, and the scheme would be given up immediately, for her sister was dearer to her than a winter in town, however longed for!