Chapter 45

CHAPTER 45

M argaret, upon entering the familiar scenes of Delaford Parish after a period of full three months, was alternately transported with delight and oppressed with apprehension. There was true delight in coming home. She had quit the place in summer, and now it was almost Christmas.

Her eyes could not discover fast enough all the familiar houses, trees, hills, and scenes, cloaked in winter's own charming colours of black, white, grey, dark green, and then sudden bursts of orange, and crimson, as if autumn had left something of itself to cheer her eye. But with the village almost upon her, and then with her, and then past her so quickly, and her being so close to Delaford House, she was suddenly apprehensive. To present herself before her friends, before Elinor and Edward in particular, as one whom had had the opportunity to do good, to alleviate suffering, and yet to return home with no remedy after all for her sister's loss, no ability after all, to assist Edward and Elinor to discharge their bills if circumstances called for it, she trembled just a little. And then, she thought as they approached the house, what would they all think of her, dressed in clothes finer than to which she or her sisters had ever been used, and with those little mannerisms of town life which she had absorbed from her stay at Norland and in town?

And when they heard the story of how she had turned down one man and then accepted another, more wealthy gentleman, would they suppose her capricious, with little spine and a fickleness which seemed bent on imparting an idea of her as seeking a marriage for money rather than for love? The truth of it was that she thought herself capricious, weak and blind to her own heart. To receive a proposal from one man, turn him down, then accept the proposal of another, and then to decide that the first proposal was the one which might have ensured her future happiness—she saw herself as wanting very much in self-knowledge and resoluteness.

And what of her heart? Would it be hopeless of her to suppose that she could hide the new state of her heart from those who knew her most intimately? She had determined that this new knowledge of herself would be better kept hidden, since she must certainly never expect any renewals of the proposal which Captain Edwin had made to her three months prior. She would certainly not be likely to return to Norland at any time within the near future, and so her heart, while now truly a very little broken, must not be allowed to open fully to her sisters or mama.

When her carriage finally pulled into the gates which graced the high walls of Delaford House, she had no more time for such reflections for the older children were immediately coming out of the house to receive her, followed by her mother, her sisters and Edward. To see them all was a joy! And to see Marianne, her cheeks rosy and her eye bright once more, told her all that she needed to know .

She was received with affectionate eagerness into the house, kissed by all the children, and with her mother close to her side was sat down around the tea table in the small parlour, with the fire built high, and all as cosy as could be. Colonel Brandon was sent for at once to come away from his study, and when he, too, had joined them in great joy, she was then begged to give the fullest account of everything that had occurred between herself and Mr Ambrose, and to assure them all that she was not so very much oppressed with a broken heart, at least not so much that she would not, by and by, recover completely.

This assurance she could give readily, despite her tendency to lowness of spirits when she thought about whom she had loved, and lost, and left behind at Norland. But this was a secret, and it was better that her friends thought her heart untouched and intact, even though it was not as unbroken as she claimed. But since she did not wish at present for her family to guess the source of her injury, it was better that they attribute her pensiveness to the loss of Ambrose, rather than to the real reason.

Indeed, to Elinor, Mrs Dashwood and Marianne at least, they could marvel that such cruel treatment from such a wicked gentleman as Mr Ambrose had not affected Margaret more , had not obliged her to appear to them pale and jaded and excessively forlorn! But indeed, despite her tendency to quiet contemplation and slightly low spirits when she thought herself unobserved, she had even more bloom to her cheeks, and more brightness to her eye than before she had left, and certainly more than she could have been expected to have, under the very trying circumstances which had prompted her early return from town. Mrs Dashwood noted the increased beauty of her child without suspecting anything out of the ordinary way of things but that the excitement of a season in town had served to improve her looks. She was only ‘ excessively glad that the dreadful Mr Ambrose was now left behind in London!'

Marianne, still in a state of joy from having her husband beside her, also gave little thought to the cause of her sister's suspiciously bright eyes and animated countenance, but Elinor was more circumspect, and had her own private thoughts which the others might have dismissed as foolish and unlikely. However, she did not ask, and withheld further speculation until she could have a private interview with her sister.

At any rate, the assurance that she had not been materially harmed by the unfortunate and shocking circumstance of the breaking of her engagement Margaret gave them all willingly enough, with a short, composed account of her connection with Mr Ambrose and an even briefer account of its dissolution. What she could not reveal even to her Mama was that her heart had indeed been affected—but by her own actions, her own blindness.

The knowledge that she loved Captain Edwin was both bitter and wonderful, a joy and a torment together, and she could hardly think of him without bubbling over with wonder and crying her heart out at the same time! She would, by and by, tell Mama and Elinor of the proposal at Norland, but for now, she wished to keep such intimate feelings to herself. His face swam in her vision, and since her heart yearned for what she had so easily, so foolishly , thrown off, she had not yet forgiven herself for her folly. She had no idea that her increased bloom, her brightened complexion and her particularly animated eyes gave something of her heart away to the one sister who knew her best. She steered the conversation always towards the activities and pursuits of her time in town, and wholly prevent discussion of gentlemen of any description, in case they might suspect some attachment and thereby discover the truth!

Her new manners and fashionable clothing however, were topic for comment. ‘How beautiful you look!' cried her mama and Marianne, after they had all expressed their satisfaction that she was home and not more unhappy than when she had left.

‘That gown is so pretty on you! Fanny has turned you into a lady, after all!' added Marianne laughing. ‘Did not I foretell that she would?'

‘I believe,' said Colonel Brandon, his tone most unusually light, ‘it was Elinor who made the prediction, but it is true, Margaret, you have come home very much a young lady—but not to any material disadvantage, for I am gratified to see that town has not given you affectations and silly graces.'

‘You are too good to me, Philip,' cried Margaret. ‘I hope very much that I have not learned too many bad habits! I would not like to be accused having airs and graces! But the truth is that John was so very generous with giving me all that I needed in town—I return with so many new gowns, far finer than I will ever need to wear here—and Fanny has set for me a standard which I believe was much wanting in me before I left!'

‘Fanny has proved to be useful after all, then! When I doubted her motives from the first!' laughed Marianne.

‘I hope it is not too vain of me,' confessed Margaret with a smile, ‘but I believe I have become rather fond of a pretty gown, after all! And I must confess Mama, that I don't hate gloves and bonnets and shoes and stockings quite as much as I did when I left here.' She laughed a little self-consciously, for she could not but own to herself that her interest in her appearance had begun to change around the time she had become conscious of the admiration of Captain Edwin.

Elinor, smiling as if she knew a secret that the others did not, added, ‘I hardly think it a crime to be fond of appearing to advantage. I confess that even for myself there is a certain pleasure in the wearing of a pretty gown, when there is someone near to admire it, at least! '

Margaret blushed immediately, and while only Elinor noted the rising colour of her sister, she said nothing more, her suspicions confirmed

Tea was brought in, and tea-cake and such plain food as Margaret had been a long time denied, and for a time they spoke of household business, and of the return of Colonel Brandon. Margaret was now informed of the threat to Delaford, all that had passed in France, the intention of Colonel Brandon to buy his repentant nephew a commission in the army, and of Marianne's recent fall into the icy brook and subsequent illness.

The story of Colonel Brandon's return, and Marianne's ongoing recovery from that moment gave Margaret great relief. But her anxiety for Marianne in town had been great, and Marianne's fears for her sister's marriage had imparted to the younger girl a greater understanding of marital relations. She said with great feeling, ‘To think, Philip, that you thought there was anything between Willoughby and Marianne when you met him at Hanover-square! How wrong things can look, even when one is not doing the wrong thing! But I am so glad that you and Marianne are restored to each other now!'

The Colonel took his wife's hand. ‘I have been thought a fool many times in my life, I am sure,' said he, ‘but no one can think me more of a fool than myself, in these last few months. But Delaford is safe, and Marianne is restored to me, and I am therefore content.'

Margaret sighed. ‘I am just glad to see you both in better spirits—I was so anxious for you both in town! But, if it is not an impertinence to ask—and please beg my pardon Philip—but what of Willoughby now? Will he not try again to see William?'

Mrs Dashwood, who had rejoiced to hear that Colonel Brandon intended to ride to Combe Magna to discuss William with his father, was eager. ‘You will not credit the dear Colonel with such kindness Meg, but only hear what he has done! He has agreed to Willoughby's seeing his son, with a view to the boy's going to live at Combe Magna once he is ready! Is it not the most generous, unselfish thing?'

‘Indeed, it truly is! Philip, that is most generous of you! Poor William ought to have the right to know his father, if only Willoughby will not regret it, nor it harm the boy's prospects.'

The Colonel was grave. ‘Willoughby seems intent on raising the child as his own, and I see a fair future for the lad, providing he be put into some career or other. Combe is only worth seven hundred pounds a year but it is still a respectable estate, if the boy is put in charge and taught to manage it well.'

‘Excellent!' cried Margaret, joyfully. ‘Dearest Philip, how kind you are!'

Edward, who had been in one of his usual reveries, now said cordially, ‘Well, Meg, it is good to have you back, but you have yet to meet your new nephew, little Robert.'

‘I cannot wait to hold the dear creature,' smiled Margaret.

Elinor promised that as soon as young Robbie had awakened from his sleep she would be granted time to hold and coo over him. ‘But you must be tired from your journey, Meg dear. Go upstairs and rest, and I will call you when Bessie brings Robbie to me.'

Margaret was content to do just that, basking in the joy of her reception and the comfort of familiar things around her again, and she retired to her old room with relief. She was very much wishing to continue the contemplation in privacy of all she had learned, and most particularly, the state of her mind and heart.

She changed out of her travelling things, and one of the maids came with hot water so that she could refresh herself. Lying down on her bed for an hour, familiar sounds of the household lulling her, and the distant voices of the children calling and laughing, her tumultuous thoughts grew quieter and more composed, but she found that she could not sleep, for she was still overwhelmed with a new knowledge of herself—of her own heart. She wondered if she would very soon receive a letter from Miss Edwin, in response to the one she had sent before she had left town, but with that notion came a bitter-sweet feeling in her breast which made her eyes water, and she dashed away a tear. Would she ever see Captain Edwin again? It was unlikely that she would be invited back to Norland for some time, and without an invitation to stay, she could think of no other reason why she should find herself in Sussex again in the near future.

She wished very much to know, too, the circumstances of Captain Edwin's being in town just as Mr Ambrose had made his escape back there, and why the two had been sharing a carriage, and the circumstance of Mr Ambrose's being in ill temper with his cousin, when they had parted. She could not see how what she had seen could have had anything to do with Mr Ambrose's treacherous deeds in Ramsgate, for Mrs Jennings had been quite sure that the person to have discovered his liason with Miss Rush had been the lady's father. It was all very puzzling, and yet she felt sure that there was more to be told than what she knew. Perhaps a letter from Miss Edwin would explain it all.

She had lain on her bed for some time, her feelings at once misery and happiness, and marvelling that being in love should feel so dreadful, when presently a knock came at the door and then there was Elinor, with the baby for her to hold. For a few moments, she could do nothing but kiss and smile at this newest nephew, but after a few more moments, she looked up at Elinor, her eyes very bright.

‘Oh Elinor! He is lovely. But now your family is growing so large, and Teddy will require a good sum to send him to school and outfit him as he grows…the girls can have your old gowns cut up for them, but are you and Edward not materially affected by this loss of Edward's money?'

Elinor, seeing her sister's anxiety, pressed her hand. ‘We will go on nicely, just as we have always done. Remember that we have been obliged to learn economy, Meg, after Papa died. We will manage very well.'

‘But I should have liked very much to be a source of comfort to you and dear Edward with the loss of your fortune. In marrying Ambrose I should have had the means to relieve you just a little of your debts. I know you would not have expected anything from me as Ambrose's wife, but I should like you to know how much it would have meant to me to be able to assist you.'

‘Dear Meg! That is just like you! Your Mr Ambrose did not deserve you and I can only be glad that you were saved from a life of certain unhappiness!' Elinor clasped her sister's hand. ‘Edward and I will go on very well. We still have the interest from my own thousand pounds, and so we have no less than we had when we started out. All will be well, Meg, you will see!'

‘But when you started, you had only yourselves, and now you number five!'

Elinor smiled. ‘With careful household management, we shall still do very well. The Colonel has always been generous, and really, Edward and I have very little to want besides the basics of life. We always made a joke that my idea wealth was even less than his, and so I am content.' She paused. ‘There is, however, one thing I wish to question you on regarding your Mr Ambrose. I did not think it appropriate to ask in front of the others, but Edward and I are most particularly keen to discover if the Mr Claymore with whom we became involved, is anything to do with Fanny and John? You mentioned his name in one of your first letters, and then when we lost the investment, the name returned to me.'

Margaret was all astonishment. ‘Claymore? Why yes, I met Mr Claymore. He was—is—some acquaintance of Charles'—that is, of Mr Ambrose's,' she corrected self-consciously. ‘Mr Ambrose was Fanny and John's acquaintance, but Mr Claymore seemed to be with him very often. They are business associates, I collect.' She paused. ‘What is it? You are gone very pale? You don't suppose Mr Ambrose has anything to do with the loss of your fortune, do you?

Elinor was very grave. ‘Edward made some inquiries as to this Claymore and his marine insurance business when we were first offered the opportunity to invest by John and Fanny. At first, it seemed that the business was solid, and that Mr Claymore was a respectable businessman. But then few months ago Edward found that we had missed something—this Mr Claymore had been accused of fraud by three respectable gentlemen, who lost their money and tried to take him to court, but he was found not guilty on the grounds of not enough evidence, and nothing more came of it. I cannot but help think—but I suppose it could have nothing to do with your Mr Ambrose.'

‘And yet,' said Margaret in some anxiety, ‘It is too much a coincidence to ignore. I don't know if he could have anything to do with your loss, however, for the connection between the two men was purely, as I understand, based on acquaintance and mutual social circles.'

‘Still,' replied Elinor thoughtfully, ‘it does seem a rather odd coincidence. I suppose we will never know.' She adjusted baby Robbie's muslin and paused. ‘Dearest Meg, I would not for the world force an intimacy, and I shall not demand a positive answer to an inquiry so direct as to perhaps cause pain, but I shall just say that if there is anything else about which you want to confide, I am willing to hear you, without judgement or comment.'

Margaret's eyes were very bright and she was excessively inclined to confide in her sister. ‘Oh Elinor! I wish I could tell you—but I cannot!'

‘Perhaps you left friends behind,' asked Elinor gently, ‘in town, or at Norland?'

Margaret almost confided in her sister, but a sense of not wishing to share the secret joy of being in love just yet prevented her. ‘I—I did. Miss Emily Edwin is Fanny and John's neighbour in town,' she added, blushing to mention the name which held so much particular interest for her. ‘We spent much time together before I left for town. I should very much like to see her again,' Margaret sighed. ‘But we correspond, and that must suffice, for I doubt I shall return to Norland in the near future, nor she travel into Devonshire!'

‘I am glad you made a friend, Meg, but I perceive a want of spirits in you since you have been home that cannot be entirely due to the loss of a young lady's companionship. Will you reassure me that you are not pining for this Mr Ambrose?'

Margaret reassured her, although she would not elaborate more. ‘I have been foolish, Elinor, all the same. I thought myself in want of experience,' she added bitterly, ‘in want of a knowledge of the world, before I could understand my own heart—I regarded my feelings as nothing compared to silly, worldly knowledge! I thought I needed to experience life in order to understand my feelings, and I was so wrong! Perhaps I have now thrown away something more valuable—but it is useless to think on it now…how I have changed, Elinor, from when I went away! A silly, foolish child went away to town, and a woman has come back in her place—but I am not sure I like the feeling!'

‘You will return to Barton again soon, dearest, and all regrets will fade, no matter what they are. Do not forget the love of your friends, whom have your best interests at heart. And who knows,' added Elinor, ‘that John and Fanny might not invite you back to Norland again one day, and you will have a chance to see your friend Miss Edwin again.'

The hope of meeting the Edwins again—to see Captain Edwin again— lifted Margaret's spirits, but it was useless to deny that while she might never forget Captain John Edwin, or think of him with less tenderness and affection that she did at that moment, the notion that he had perhaps already forgotten her, or worse, thought of her with resentment on account of having suffered a rejection from her, filled her with despair and remorse.

Elinor, with tender embraces for her sister, left her to take baby Robbie to the nursery, and Margaret was left again to contemplate her foolishness in being the author of her own unhappiness by having given up a gentleman whom she valued as highly as she did the Colonel and Edward!