Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

LONDON

M argaret's departure from Harley-street had been accomplished with less to-do that she had supposed would ensue. The only difficulty in retreating was that in her removal, Mrs Jennings took great misery on her behalf. She had called twice at Harley-street to tell her so.

‘She was very sorry for Miss Margaret indeed, and she supposed that once a young women had suffered a disappointment such as Margaret's, the gentleman being so rich and so eligible, she doubted of Margaret's ever getting over it, that she was monstrous indignant at the wretched man whom she hoped would suffer greatly when he became sensible of his loss, and that she was most exceedingly disappointed that Margaret must go away after only being in town such a short time.'

But Margaret managed well enough to comfort Mrs Jennings in her unhappiness, so that when the lady finally took her hat, gloves and leave, she thought she might successfully have prevented a further visit before her departure the following day.

The next morning, pretty bonnet and new travelling cloak fastened, she had made her final good-byes to Fanny and John. Fanny, her pinched lips puckered and her skin pale, made her as civil a goodbye as was demanded by politeness, and hardly was able to look Margaret in the eye, seeing her in the drawing room and declining to come out to the carriage.

John was, in his own way, as kind as he could be. ‘You must not be too hard on Fanny, my dear, for being a little distant. Her feelings were always very tender and sensitive, and she does not take easily to upsetting circumstances. She has undergone a very great shock.' He escorted her down to the waiting carriage as the impatient horses stomped in the cold air. The maid who was to accompany her was already waiting inside.

‘I am sorry for Fanny,' replied Margaret drily. ‘I hope that her suffering will be of short duration.'

‘Yes, of course you do, my dear, you are so kind to desire it. Poor Fanny has been quite hysterical whenever the topic is mentioned to her. I have recommended that she see no acquaintance of hers for at least several more days. I suppose the talk will die out and all will be forgotten. But, my dear sister, her suffering cannot be more than your own.' Here he took her hand and pressed it with more feeling than she had thought possible. ‘To have the prospect of such affluence in your future, to be aligned with one of the most illustrious families in the country, ripped so cruelly from you, it is not to be thought of, so much pain it gives me!'

‘Thank you, John, you are very good,' murmured Margaret repressing smile at her brother's supposing her distress issued from a like fascination with rank and affluence. It would not occur to him that her own suffering issued from the fact that she had been humiliated thoroughly, due to her own ignorance and naivety. ‘Mr Ambrose's actions were very shocking, it is true, but I assure you, I am not heart-broken!'

‘Yes. Well, I suppose no impoverished young lady with any sense chooses her partner entirely with her heart—marriage must be supported by far more than affection, when one has no fortune or rank and cannot choose where she pleases! But I am sure you are as sensible a girl as you ever were, and take your great loss with fortitude.'

She would not vouchsafe any answer. She fought her rising colour and forbore to make any reply which might injure their familial tie beyond repair.

John handed her into the carriage. ‘Still, it was deplorable of him—monstrous! I am still vexed with myself for allowing Fanny to consider him a suitable match for you—Fanny says her trust in him is broken—we have quite thrown him off you know. Fanny will not have him in the house, and she has told the servants never to admit him if he should call. It is the very least we can do, my dear, after the ordeal he has put you through. Poor Fanny is quite devastated over the business. I doubt that her spirits will recover from this blow very soon!'

Despite Fanny's being so affected by the tragedy of a sister-in-law whom she had never really loved, and as a rule never saw from one year to another, Margaret felt that her own spirits were quite certain, for she was going home. And she had not had an entirely unpleasant time at Norland and in town, for her three-month adventure in the world had afforded her the excitement, the experiences, and the company she had sought. As for her broken engagement to Mr Ambrose, she had never supposed that she would return as a married woman, had not gone to London for the purpose, and so, finding that she was not after all to be one, she felt that she could not be too disappointed. Her only regret was not being able to be the means of assisting Elinor and Edward a little after their loss. The guilt which Fanny had oppressed her with after her refusal still weighed heavy upon her, that in marrying Ambrose she might have had the means to do a little good with the one benefit she would have enjoyed in making the match.

As the carriage made its way out of the city and onto the high road towards Devonshire, she began to think back upon her experiences. It was laughable, she thought, that she had quit Delaford with so many hopes and dreams, and so many ill-conceived ideas about the world. She was now obliged to admit of her own folly.

The beautifully dressed people, the glittering opera houses and theatres, the exotic and wonderful sights that London had afforded her, she now saw had been nothing but a fa?ade, a glossy exterior which had hidden behind it people just as ordinary as those to be found in the country. Beneath all those stylish gowns and jackets, behind the fascinations and the exoticisms, the real world lay concealed, just as full of disappointments, faults and inconsistencies as one might find any other place. She had supposed, childishly, that London would be different to the country, and in a way she had found that it was, for people there seemed even more concerned with appearance, rank and wealth, than those in her own circles. But where there was more superficial excitement and glamour, she found, there was more to be disappointed by, more to find fault with, when one looked closely enough.

She recalled again her first conversation with Ambrose and smiled to herself. She had partaken on the "banquet" of dishes he had warned of, and at first had found them exciting exotic and delicious. But after a time they had become cloying and unhealthy. Too much sweet, too much rich food, and one felt nauseated, and as much as she had enjoyed the new ideas and new people she had hoped to meet, she found that she now yearned for a simple meal of kind thoughts, simple conversation which did not hide alternate meanings, and the warmth of her family around her.

And yet she had achieved one thing—she had come to know herself better—to test herself in the world—but she had discovered that she was very much wanting in the ability to discern between what was real and what was illusion. Ambrose had been an illusion—a beautiful, and charming one—but he was not real, and the glamour of town was no more so than he. She had realized it too late.

Her journey was to be three days going home and she was not eager to be done too soon, for she still had much more to think upon. With the absence of any particularly engaging conversation from the woman who had been hired for her comfort, and the dull sameness of the scenery for miles at a time, she found that her mind was now at liberty to fix on those other matters which also concerned her, and from which she had been distracted for a time by thoughts of the dissolution of her engagement and the author of that dissolution.

Now memories of her visit to Norland, her walks in the surrounding district, and in particular the little village of Hadston, came to amuse her, and occasionally, to unsettle her. One matter in particular she was eager to contemplate in her private thoughts—she had written before she had left, to Miss Edwin, not quite able to mention the presence of Captain Edwin in town, but she had hoped that by imparting the news of her disappointment, as cheerfully as she could, she might invite that return of confidences which would hold the key to the matter of Captain Edwin's being in town, and so astonishingly engaged in some altercation with Mr Ambrose. She had advised Miss Edwin that she would be returned to Delaford within the week, and that she might be written to there, until she quit that place for Barton Cottage once again .

In the recollection of her time at Norland she found some pleasure, but when she thought of that particular household in Hadston, and her own particular interest in the doings of its inhabitants, such feelings arose as dampened her eager spirits. In short, as the hours passed by, she thought more and more upon the Captain's proposal to her which she had declined, and as the carriage put more distance between herself and the place of her new-found education, she found Captain Edwin occupying her thoughts even more than the disappointment with Mr Ambrose.

Two such different gentlemen! It was impossible to her now not to compare them, now that she had the benefit of hindsight. One gentleman, so frank and open, so quietly authoritative, so kind— the other superficially a gentleman, with his fine clothes, his polished and studied manners, and his charming demeanour. But it seemed that his attentiveness towards her had proceeded from a wicked heart, while the other had acted disinterestedly toward her in all things. How had she not seen the gaping difference between the two gentlemen sooner?

She recalled, and compared, the conversations she had had with both gentlemen—both so different in their attitudes and opinions, the one so full of the charm, the education and the worldliness she had she had at first sought so eagerly, the other full of humility, knowledge of the world that was practiced, not learned from books, and a profound depth of character which she now saw was lacking in the other.

The idea of him —of Captain Edwin—now disconcerted and confused her. Ought she to have accepted his offer of marriage? But had she agreed to marry him, she likely would never have gone on to town, and partaken of experiences which had taught her valuable lessons about the things that held priority in her life that she had not even realized were important. Still, the friendship she had known from Captain Edwin and his daughter, the deep regard she held for them both, and the unlikelihood of her returning to Norland soon, made her feel most dispirited. The words of her sister came to her then, when she had asked for advice on Mr Ambrose's proposal, and with them, a few tears. Her sun, her air, her food and her drink….would that such a man might think the same of her!

An overnight on the road, followed by a second, and all the hours in between to think, was all that needed to bring clarity to her mind. By the time the carriage had reached the familiar scenery of her own county, she had come to the conclusion that she was destined for a less illustrious future than to be married to a wealthy gentleman of rank. She now longed only for the country-life in which she had always taken such pleasure.

But she also realized that London had altered her more than she had thought. It was true that Elinor's laughing prediction had been correct, in that Fanny would make of her a young lady—and she admitted that a pretty dress, and better manners, was now not lost on her. But she had also come to understand something more, something which she had not admitted to herself until now. When at last John's carriage entered the final piece of road which would lead to the little village of Delaford she was most sober indeed. Three day's reflection had been obliged upon her—indeed, they had done their final work—and now she must inure herself to the lessons they had worked upon her—for she had realized that it had never been Mr Ambrose with whom she had been in love at all, but Captain John Edwin.