Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

M argaret had been in her room for some time, sobbing periodically into her pillow, confusion, despair and angry humiliation having an equal share in her feelings. Humiliation sat upon her shoulders like a shroud, and anger like a mantle of wet wool, prickling at the skin of her heart and making her break out periodically into a rash of vexation and self-recrimination. Mr Ambrose, her own Mr Ambrose, whom she had thought above all reproach, to whom she had given her hand and her trust—he had behaved very ill, very wicked indeed! She had thought him sincere—she had thought him true when he told her that he loved her! But then, had he really? Could he have loved her at all? He had never really said the exact words, but his kindnesses to her—his very particular attentions—surely she had not been misled? Surely he had loved her? And he had made her most sincerely attached to him!

Little wonder it was that he had not come to see her—he must know that made publicly known, his affair with Miss Henrietta Rush would now mean no decent women would accept his hand who knew of it. No wonder he had never called— and John, she was sure, would not have admitted him to the house had he made any attempt to talk to her. But how could he humiliate her in this way? How could he profess to be attached to her, and yet act in such a way—a libertine and a rascal he certainly was!

A knock now came at her door but her visitor had not the patience to wait for an invitation, and Fanny appeared in the doorway. ‘I supposed you to be up here,' she began in her sharp tones, stepping gingerly into the room. ‘I thought you might be rather upset by the silly news of Mrs Jennings—there was no need to be quite so dramatic as to run out of the room, however! That woman is a known gossip—I am certain that no such thing ever happened at all and if it did, she must have mistaken the name of the gentleman, I will vouch for it!'

‘Thank you Fanny,' replied Margret stiffly, wiping her eyes and lifting her chin. ‘But although Mrs Jennings is known to be full of the town's doings, she would not have told me if she was not very sure of the facts.'

‘But—even if it were true—such things to be sure are not uncommon! Why, a man must give way to his—passions—before marriage or you would be very sorry afterward! Women have done worse things than accept a little wild behaviour before marriage!'

‘Fanny,' cried Margaret warmly, ‘how can you say such dreadful things—how can you acquit Mr Ambrose of his actions? His actions are despicable! He has hurt me cruelly! It is I, John's sister, to whom you speak! Have you no compassion at all?'

‘Yes,' replied Fanny coldly, ‘I know to whom it is I speak—a low-born young woman with no rank and no fortune, who has been offered a chance most women in your position in life would have the humility not to throw away on the merest whim! You are what I dislike in so many young females these days—prideful and nice—and niceness in those who cannot afford it makes you a fool! '

Margaret, stung beyond anything, stood up from the bed, facing her sister-in-law. ‘I thank you for your opinion, Fanny, and I wish now to be left alone. Please ask John to send a note to Mr Ambrose, with this—' Here she reached upwards and unfixed the ruby pendant and handed it roughly to Fanny. ‘I shall have no further use for it.'

‘Then you will not have him, after all? You truly intend to give him up?' Fanny cried in disbelief, as pale and angry as Margret had ever seen her. ‘Foolish! Ungrateful! After all I have done to encourage the match!'

‘Nevertheless, I shall not marry Mr Ambrose,' rejoined Margaret quietly.

‘But—I was to—he promised to—you cannot refuse him! Think of the misery that you will bring to your poor sister and Edward—will you harm them , to avenge yourself?'

‘No Fanny, I would never harm Elinor or Edward if I could help it—but I will not marry a man who values me as nothing over his own immoral inclinations.'

‘Then,' replied Fanny in a sudden moment of spite, ‘you deserve as much as you will get from this obstinate show of pride—nothing at all!'

Painful indeed was that dreadful interview with Fanny, but Margaret, now thoroughly enlightened as to Fanny's character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the most ill-natured and mean intentions. She had always believed her sister-in-law to be a little cool of nature, certainly not full of the goodwill of her own family, but she had not thought her capable of such disdain toward her entire family. But ever more painful was the thought that she had brought it all upon herself. Fanny was right in one respect—she had been a silly, na?ve, fool!

Two incidents now came to haunt her again, the first one when she had been with Marianne at Lackingtons and she had overhead the two strangers speaking of herself and Mr Ambrose. The other of course, had been Mr Ambrose's improper overtures to herself only a week ago in Hyde Park, in which he would surely have made love to her there and then, behind a tree in almost plain sight of her brother and Fanny! Now these memories caused her to sob even more deeply, for she knew very well that she had been a made a fool, and that it was her own fault. She had chosen to ignore her own inner reproofs, that she ought to have known Mr Ambrose better—but she had fallen under his spell, his charm and fascinating ways had worked upon her, although she had been so resolved never to marry unless she could find another Edward or another Colonel Brandon!

After a period of time spent pondering these matters, and allowing her thoughts to give her nowhere to hide her own wrongdoing in the matter, Margaret had enough sense to understand her own part in the unhappy affair, for she was obliged to admit that she had been na?ve, innocent and foolish. She had turned a deaf ear to the women in the library, and allowed herself to pass off the incident in the park as due to Ambrose's passionate nature and affection for herself. She had mistaken desire for love, and his own lascivious attentions to her for kindness.

Worse, she had been blind even to Ambrose's own warning that the city could change one, that with too much pleasure, one become jaded and worn out within a season. That partaking too much of its offerings, the delightful spread of entertainments and teasing enticements that the city offered a young lady, could become a poison to the soul and mislead the truest heart. In truth, she had allowed herself to become hypnotised, fascinated by the charm of the man, the glittering surface of an urbane, wealthy gentleman, and she had not recognized the wolf below the expensive and well-cut jackets and breeches. He had presented himself in such a way, and dazzled her, and she had wanted to taste the delights of town, and she had allowed him to lure her into his world. London had been exciting, and she had been ready to enjoy its delights. Just as he had told her the first day they had met, she had been given the chance to sample its delights, but she had not been wise, and had thought that such delight could sustain her forever!

Charles Ambrose had been a dish she thought she had wanted—a dish she had at first spurned for its richness, and then little by little accepted and taken more of, until she had been sickened to the bone.

She sat up abruptly on the bed. ‘I have been the dupe of Mr Ambrose. He never loved me at all—he never really said the words! If I have been misled, it is my own fault!'

The words were clear, and with the words came another realization; that anger held by far the greater part of her emotions. She was not, in truth, as broken-hearted as she was angry. In truth, she admitted of a sense of relief in having discovered that her perfect gentleman had, after all, not been without fault.

‘What would my life have been like, with such a man?' she asked herself aloud. Yes, she would never have been obliged to worry over money again, and she would have been happy to make gifts of her own generously-promised pin money to her sisters, especially to dear Elinor whose prospects had been so disappointed! Ambrose had made it very clear that he would make her sister's life comfortable and that neither family nor her mama would want for anything. But despite John's urging her to do what was ‘right' she had not been raised to believe that to marry for money was right at all, and now, she did not have to live with a conscience that would always have pricked her, that she had given in to a wicked temptation, even if it was for a pure motive.

She had not been in love with Mr Ambrose. She had been many things; fascinated, mesmerized, and charmed, but she felt now that she had not been in love with him at all, and had she been left to consult her own inclinations from the beginning, she would not have encouraged the acquaintance, even as Fanny seemed so keen on it.

Her tears, which had flowed for above an hour now had dried completely, and she stood and went to the basin to wash her face. When she had splashed water over it, and dried herself on the muslin beside the basin, she felt as if she had been through a baptism of fire and had somehow been purified from it. She felt new-made, as if she was different somehow. There was a calm, a tranquillity about her mind, which had long been wanting.

Now another knock came at her door, and John stood before her. ‘My dear sister! How pale you look!'

She said nothing, and feared that he, too, would berate her for giving up Ambrose.

‘Fanny told me the dreadful news when I came in. I went out again at once to ascertain if it was true. I called immediately upon Mr Rush who told me that he has already spoken to Mr Ambrose and that he has just now made Mr Ambrose agree to marry the young lady. I feel very much for you, my dear, at this time, but you must see that Mr Ambrose ought to marry Miss Henrietta, and that you must give him up immediately. I pray you would not pine over him!—I see you have been crying—and I hate to see your pretty eyes red! Poor Margaret! But it is an advantageous marriage for them both,' added John Dashwood musingly, oblivious to Margaret's rising colour, ‘for Miss Henrietta has a modest fortune to add to his own, which with his style of living will be quite an addition, and he is not an ill-favoured man—his circumstance of being in line to inherit Charlton Park makes him quite a prospect for the young lady—Mr Rush could have done worse for his daughter—I suppose he will have to overlook the way it was gone about—that young woman had her eye on Ambrose for some time—flirting and making eyes at him!—but she is just fortunate that her father was able to force him to marry her. Well, it is a poor affair, overall, for you, my dear sister. But only think if you had married him, you would have been rich, to be sure—but I suspect you would have been made unhappy after a time. These great men always tend to think too highly of themselves—I suppose that would not have pleased you, my dear Margret, since you have come from such a humble background—pray do not make yourself too unhappy over it! Now, how do you go on? May I order anything for your comfort?'

She gave him nothing but a shake of the head, and he sat upon the bed next to her.

‘My dear sister!'

Here he kindly seized her hand and spoke in a loud whisper, Margaret supposed, to avoid being overheard by his wife upstairs. ‘In light of the dreadful circumstances which have now fallen upon us all, by your association with Mr Ambrose, I hope I may reassure you—and I will, for I know you will gain some comfort from it—that I myself was never in agreement with Fanny that Ambrose was the husband for you. I remember several occasions when I countered her own opinion of his suitability to you as a husband, but alas, she could not see eye to eye with me, and after a time even I was convinced, to my own deep regret, of his making you a fine husband.'

His remorse seemed genuine, and his words accounted for much that she had wondered at. She shook her head. ‘I can only blame myself, John, for although Fanny indeed seemed very happy to encourage the acquaintance, I cannot blame anyone else but myself for being blinded by what I can only call foolish girlishness.'

‘You are a good girl, Margaret, indeed. I can assure you most violently that Fanny herself was only blinded to his faults by a very sincere desire of doing good to my family, and especially since you have all suffered greatly with the loss of Edward's fortune—we had hoped to improve the fortunes of all my dear sisters by encouraging such a union. Fanny is, I assure you, most distraught over the business, and you will understand the seriousness of her suffering when I tell you that she has taken to her room, and cannot be made comfortable without a great deal of sherry and smelling salts.'

Margaret concealed a bitter smile at this news for she perceived that Fanny was rather more upset over her own loss of an influential friend than over her sister-in-law's disappointment. Had she come to console Margaret when Mrs Jennings was gone away, Margaret might have believed Fanny's distress to be partly on her own behalf, but after Mrs Jennings had taken her leave, Margaret had been obliged to endure several minutes of hysterics before she took her own leave to go to her room and sob her heart out.

Trying to keep the bitterness from her tone, she replied, ‘I am very sorry to hear of Fanny's being out of sorts. I am sure the dissolution of my attachment with Mr Ambrose will affect her greatly!' She could not help the slight haughtiness of tone in which she uttered the words, since her own suffering, her right to have suffered more greatly than Fanny, bore upon her the truth of her sister-in-law's affections for her husband's sister, but she declined to let John see how vexed she was to hear of Fanny's relying upon sherry to support her spirits when, besides anger and judgement, nothing at all had been offered herself by her sister-in-law in the way of consolation and affection in her time of affliction.

Fanny would certainly bear the loss of her favourite's reputation very ill. Margaret had always thought Fanny on an unusually intimate footing with Ambrose, and now that she thought on it, it had taken her a short time only to judge of the reason for their intimacy. He was rich and would inherit Charlton Park, and Fanny might use her connection with him to further her own interests in rank and in mixing in the "right" circles in society. Perhaps, after all, that is why Fanny had pushed so hard for the union between Ambrose and herself. But Margaret had little in the way of compassion to accompany the thought of Fanny's suffering over Margaret's loss.

And as for Ambrose himself, she felt no guilt regarding her behaviour. She had done no wrong, but had merely been foolish, looking at the world as if she were still a child, and subsequently found herself duped. He must suffer more than herself, she thought. Shame would be his companion, for a time at least, until the world forgave and forgot, but merely self-recrimination hers, and she felt that she had the better of the two choices.

Now she looked John in the eye with a hint of Dashwood spirit. ‘I am injured, but I am not broken, John. I feel that my pride has been wounded, rather than my heart, for I must confess that while I respected him, and held a certain affection for him, I did not love Mr Ambrose, and it is perhaps for the best that his character, now revealed to me, should have given me a means to withdraw from the engagement. I sincerely wish him very happy with Miss Henrietta.'

‘Certainly, my dear, certainly! No one shall think you the slightest to blame, for all of London knows of his licentiousness!'

Margaret started, a little astonished. ‘What do you mean, all of London knows? Did you know, John? If all of London knows what Mr Ambrose is, why did nobody warn me? Why did you allow the acquaintance?'

John had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Why—my dear Margaret—I admit of hearing a little gossip, perhaps, but the match—it was such a good one, and Fanny had very great hopes indeed, very great, that Mr Ambrose was ready to settle down—his uncle, you know—I was quite of the same mind as Fanny—besides, a man will sew his oats, before he settles—it is not unusual?—'

Margaret, seeing all that she had suspected in her brother's face, took pity upon him. ‘Never mind, John, it is done now,' she said tiredly. ‘It was as much my own fault as anyone's.'

‘Well, there now, you see how you are already getting over him quite easily! No harm done—no harm done at all, if one thinks on it! And I can assure you, dear sister, that if I see him in the street, I certainly shall walk on the other side, for the disservice he has done my sister. If he ever calls, we shall never be at home to him—certainly I can assure you I shall never speak to him again!' repeated John Dashwood in a sudden spasm of brotherly generosity.

Margaret hid a sad smile. ‘You are very kind,' she murmured, allowing him to squeeze her hand again.

‘I must say you bear up very well, very well indeed, sister. Are you sure there is nothing I can order for your comfort? A little sherry for yourself, perhaps? It has done Fanny the world of good.'

‘Thank you but no,' replied she. ‘If I might request one thing, however—I should like to return to Delaford at the end of the week, if you might arrange it for me.'

‘Of course, my dear sister, if you feel that you cannot stay on with us—I would like you to have stayed until we ourselves removed at the end of January—but I quite understand. You will have my carriage, and a woman to go with you for propriety—I would accompany you myself, but I have so many other engagements to attend—but you can count on me to arrange it all, although Fanny will be very sorry to see you go—we both will!' And here, John took her hand again so warmly, and his words were so imbued with sincerity that she almost believed in his desire to have her stay.

‘There is one other thing, John, that I wish to ask you. I—I wonder if you have seen Captain Edwin in town recently? I—I thought I saw him a few days ago, in Bond-street.'

John looked his astonishment. ‘Edwin? Why no, my dear, we have not had his card, nor seen him here in Harley-street. When he is in town he is never remiss in paying those attentions which are due Fanny—I think you must have mistaken someone else for him, certainly! '

‘Oh! Yes, I am sure I must have been mistaken after all. He was a long way off from where I sat, and really, at a distance all gentleman look alike!'

When she was left alone, she sat for some time at her window, a favourite place to think. She could not understand what part Captain Edwin had played in the entire affair, but she knew that his visit to town was somehow connected.

Sober and grave, she pleaded a headache and remained in her room for the evening, a long time in thought. When she finally slept, she dreamed she was running along the hilltops of Barton, with tears streaming down her face, looking for someone or something she had lost. Ambrose appeared out of a mist, leering at her, then Miss Henrietta Rush in a very fine gown, laughing at her with disdain, and then Captain Edwin, sitting on the banks of a river fishing and ignoring her pitiful pleas for help until she woke herself crying out, ‘For heaven's sake, have pity on me! Have pity!'