Chapter 46

CHAPTER 46

T he first week of January had brought with it brisk winds and fine days, preceded by thick, white hoar-frosts in the mornings. There were no blossoms yet on the trees, expect those which remained green all year around, but even they were pretty against the pale blueish hue of the sky.

Christmas had come and gone, and a full three weeks passed since Margaret had come home to Delaford. Marianne and the Colonel were restored to their former affections, Elinor and Edward went on as they always did, despite their disappointment, and Mrs Dashwood went about in a continual state of joy, her time being divided most happily between her newest grandchildren and her three daughters. The little children went on well, happy that their family was together again, and young William had made two visits to Combe Magna, with the idea of making it his home when the Colonel thought him ready to make the change.

‘There was a time,' said the Colonel gravely to Marianne one morning when they happened to be alone at breakfast, ‘when for your sake, and for Eliza's, I could not give to Willoughby his due— he was lacking, by all actions and appearances, the qualities of a gentleman. But, since the loss of his little boy, and his wife's renouncement of him, he has become, I own it Marianne, a better man. You tried to tell me, after your interview with him in town, but I was stubborn—I would not hear good of a man who had wronged the two people most beloved to me in the world. But I feel that the loss of all that was dear to him has done him a service—he is a good father to William, and I believe he will sacrifice many things to be the kind of father he ought. His character has undergone a change for the better, as much as I never believed it could have been so, and I am glad that William should benefit from it.'

Marianne too, was glad. It had not been easy to give harbour to the son of someone she once had held secret hopes for, and having the child at Delaford, obliged to play mother to one whom might have been her own child, had been in many ways a trial. ‘But as difficult as it has been for me, dearest Brandon, I would gladly have continued to have William here, brought up with our children, rather than not to know a loving family, a father, and to have a strong start in life.'

Brandon reached for his wife's hand. ‘I do not deserve you, Marianne. But I am glad that with William's departure to Combe permanently, it will relieve the burden which you have carried so silently for so long.'

Marianne smiled, and kissed fondly that hand which covered her own. ‘I would have carried any burden for you,' she replied. ‘It would have been my duty, and my joy. It is my wish that everyone would see you as I do! So generous, so kind, to everyone! Take your nephew, for an example, who does not deserve your lenience, and yet you are as generous of spirit with him as you have been with poor Willoughby. You have been kinder to him than I would have been—I only hope he lives to deserve it, for he has yet to prove your interest in him worthy.'

‘If he does well,' replied the Colonel, ‘my nephew should be in line for promotion with a year or two, and he will be able to support his mother and himself, and perhaps even a wife and child, if he wishes. I owe this to my poor brother, as undeserving as he was, to care for his son and a woman whom by all accounts, he sincerely cared for.'

Marianne's eyes were bright. ‘Let us be this happy for ever, dear Brandon! Oh, how did I ever doubt you!'

He gave her a look which told her that his duty and joy was to serve herself, and for a moment they shared the quiet intimacy of being alone together, and more in love than ever.

‘Your mother and sister are gone to breakfast with Elinor and Edward,' reminded the Colonel. ‘Perhaps you and I could play duets together, after breakfast, while I am spared the embarrassment of an audience,' he added dryly.

‘You know you play just as well I do!' smiled Marianne. ‘But let us play Schubert together, like we used to do. Just now, I would like that more than anything in the world!'

‘Then we will play, just as we did in those early days before the children came along. How difficult it is to get near an instrument when there are several little children always trying to help one with the notes!'

Marianne laughed. ‘Yes. I don't know how I would have managed without Meg to help me with them, especially after Philip was born. She is so good with them! I could not have practiced at all without her taking them away for walks! Oh, how I shall miss Meg and Mama when they go away to Barton again next week!

‘I wonder how Margaret will fare being at Barton again, where there is little to entertain her,' answered Colonel Brandon musingly. ‘She has now become used to a wider society; the unvaried pursuits and activities of Barton, with only Sir John and Lady Middleton for company, after spending such a time away might render her dissatisfied with country life now. Sending her to town may have spoiled her for the country,' reflected the Colonel thoughtfully.

‘I had not thought Meg unhappy—she was so happy at Barton before. She never seemed to mind being there after we married—and Elinor gone a year—do you really think her unfit for country life now?'

‘She is perhaps now aware of her own beauty—in fact, she can hardly be unaware of it, as she was before. I suspect that is partly the reason behind her increased quietness—she has become aware of her power—as a woman. And wonders to what use it will be put in a little village like Barton.'

Marianne was thoughtful. ‘I had never thought of that! I suppose it is true! She is so beautiful that she must have had many more admirers than just this Ambrose. I wonder if she would not be very unhappy to return to Barton with mama then? But she has not said anything to me—in fact, she has said hardly anything to anyone, these last three weeks!'

‘That is precisely my meaning, Marianne. Her time in town seems to have changed her very much. I don't say that she is changed for the worse, for she is as beautiful and as fresh as ever, thank God! But she is so much quieter these days. She seems...not unhappy, but more caught up in her thoughts, and less inclined to outbursts of feeling such as marked her behaviour previously.'

‘I know,' replied Marianne. ‘She is quieter with me too—more private than she used to be. I think I will talk to Mama, and see what she thinks. Margaret always confides in Mama. I will not, of course, force a confidence, but perhaps if Margaret is reluctant to return to Barton, she need not, need she?'

‘You know she is welcome to remain at Delaford for as long as your mother allows it.'

‘You forget, dearest,' reminded Marianne with a smile, ‘that Margaret is almost nineteen—perhaps she does not need Mama's permission to remain anywhere she prefers! '

At this moment, a footman entered with letters for the Colonel. He took them, looked through them, and singled out one with an expression of mild surprise. ‘A letter from the one of whom we were just now speaking—my nephew, Edouard Brandon!'

Opening it up, he perused the note quickly. ‘He is travelling down from London explicitly to visit here. He wishes to pay his respects to you, and to thank me for his commission, which he commences next week. His journey will be by horseback—three days—but judging from the date it was posted, in that case he must be due to arrive today, or at the latest, tomorrow.' Colonel Brandon folded the letter and eyed his wife with a glint in his eye. ‘So! It seems you shall meet his errant nephew of mine, Marianne, and judge for yourself whether he is worthy of my generosity after all.'

‘All you have to say, dearest, is that you judge him deserving, and your word will be my guide.'

The Colonel, true to his word, retired at Marianne's wish, to the piano stool, and soon strains of Schubert's The Trout were heard ringing over the house, and faintly into the garden, where the frost was just beginning to thaw in the weak late morning sun.

The drawing room windows, long cased and giving a clear view of the gates, provided Marianne with the first opportunity, as she sat nearest the window playing on the treble part of the piano, to observe a carriage enter the driveway, and pull up almost outside the windows themselves. She started, and ceased her playing.

Colonel Brandon now paused his own his part. ‘It is my nephew—it can be no one else but he! What excellent time he has made after all.'

‘But he wrote that he was arriving by horseback,' interjected Marianne. ‘How strange his arriving in a carriage—especially as fine a carriage as this one! But I suppose he must have a reason for changing his mind. Still, horseback is by far the cheaper option for one so much dependent upon the kindness of relatives!'

The Colonel and Marianne stood to receive their guest, Marianne in a great curiosity to see this nephew of her husband's who was the author of so much deceit, and yet the recipient of so much generous benefaction.

When the young man was shown in, Marianne was ready to smile warmly and make her husband's nephew welcome, but the Colonel blinked, and for a moment was disconcerted, for the man was not his nephew but a complete stranger. He was older than Edouard Brandon, his short brown hair swept back from his forehead, his eyes very blue and sparkling, his beard short and neat, and his aspect at once keen, animated, and open. The footman, showing the man into the drawing room, waited until the gentleman had advanced a foot into the room and announced, somewhat baldly, ‘Captain John Edwin, Sir.'