Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

M arianne could not think of her husband's going away to Whitwell without an unusual and pressing unease, for she could not think how she was to fortress herself against the incessant thoughts of his needing to escape her company. Besides which she found in his presence a kind of comfort, even if he barely conversed with her these days. She preferred company to solitude, even if the company was as morose and silent as herself. Even knowing that her sister was to quit Delaford for Barton had been enough to cause her some deep regret for the past two weeks. But, she told herself, she would manage tolerably with the servants, and by and by, her husband might come out of the dark mood which had assailed him since the loss of young Beth. Perhaps a week at Whitwell might improve his mood.

She would not, she resolved, allow her dear Brandon, the man who had once shown himself to be above every hero she had ever dreamed of or read of in novels, to wallow too long in this grief which seemed to have overtaken him like a sudden dark cloud on a clear day. She would not allow her own worries and distresses to become more important than his own—she might be suffering from a short-lived malady of some kind, but he had loved Eliza's child as if she were his own child, and now all he had remaining was something akin to a grandchild, to remind him of his loss. Her own anxieties were nothing to his, she told herself.

This loss of Margaret was to have occurred at any rate, and it was perhaps well that her sister was invited to Norland, for it would make it easier for Marianne to bear the loss if she knew her sister was enjoying herself, and getting to know her family more intimately. Although, thought Marianne with unease, she still could not account for Fanny's sudden generosity, unless John had obliged her into politeness. Still, John would make sure that Margaret was made welcome, and if they were to take her to town with them, Marianne knew her half-brother had enough of affection for his youngest half-sister to ensure her safety and comfort in all situations.

The previous evening, before Elinor and Edward had taken their leave to walk the short distance back to the Parsonage, Elinor had approached Marianne and quietly taken her aside.

‘Do you think this scheme of our brother's to be a sensible one? Mama is all for the plan, and thinks only of Margaret, but I own your comments have given me some unease. Fanny has never given any of us a thought until now!'

Marianne considered. ‘I do not trust Fanny, Elinor, as much as I am sorry for being obliged to say such a thing. But I do trust John. I know he allows himself to be too much influenced by Fanny, but he does have a great deal of obvious affection for Margaret—being the youngest, she has always had a special place in his heart, I am certain. I cannot think he would invite Margaret to Norland unless he truly wished to do something for her, and to enjoy the pleasure of her company. And yet, I will miss her, truly. She has been the greatest help to me these last weeks.' Marianne sighed .

‘Meg seems to think you in ill-health, dearest,' remarked Elinor carefully. ‘If there were anything wrong, you know you can confide in Mama and me.'

‘Margaret has made five of two and two, Elinor.' Marianne's tone was sharp, and she relented and took her sister's hand. ‘I am quite well—just a little tired. It is nothing. I shall send one of the servants to get a sleep tonic from Mr Abernathy in the village, and a good nights' sleep will cure me!'

‘Then I shall leave off being in anxiety for you—but even so, will you not miss Margaret's help? You have such a busy household now with William here.'

‘I own I will miss her dearly—she has been such a help to me—but I have the servants and once Mama is gone back to Barton Cottage, there will be less for me to do. I can then give more time to the girls and little Philip.'

‘And the Colonel?' asked Elinor carefully.

‘What of him?'

‘He seems…preoccupied. Margaret spoke to me of his increasingly distracted mood.'

‘He has suffered very much, Elinor. Miss Williams' death was a shock to him. He will by and by return to his former self, I am sure, with time. Pray do not make yourself anxious for any of us! What is life but joy and suffering together? If I chose to count the sufferings, and compare them to the joys, then I would be obliged to conclude myself a very fortunate woman, for the joys far outweigh the difficulties! I have a husband and three children, and for the most part, I am content.'

Elinor, concluding that her sister's health and spirits were for the most part unaltered, went away with a heart much more at ease, and Marianne was grateful for it, unwilling to share her listless spirits even with her sister so as not to cause anxiety. It did not help her dispirited mood at all to know that Brandon would soon spend a se'en night from Delaford, but she would not beg him to stay, either. Whitwell was in need of his help, and she would not grudge Mary Perville, nor the amiable and congenial Henri Perville her husband's assistance. Knowing the value of strong familial loyalty, she had always encouraged Brandon to strengthen the bond between his sister and himself, for both their sakes. She would bear his absence with fortitude, she told herself, and went to bed determined to bear his absence with good will.

Margaret was duly packed up, small presents for Fanny and John carefully selected and wrapped, and four days later was put into the Colonel's carriage along with a servant for her comfort. The Colonel had generously provided Margaret with a purse from which she would provide for her journey and pay for her small expenses while at Norland and in town. She at first had rejected this gift with embarrassment, being already so obliged to the Colonel who had made those at Barton Cottage generous presents from his surpluses at Delaford for these five years. But the Colonel had insisted upon her taking the gift and had refused his carriage otherwise.

‘You are too generous, my dear brother,' Margaret had cried, and thrown her arms about him in gratitude. ‘I shall bring you all something from town, I promise!'

‘Bring me yourself, healthy and happy, returned safely to Delaford when the time comes, and I shall know satisfaction,' replied the Colonel with warm affection.

They all gathered after breakfast to see her off, and Marianne did her best to appear in gay spirits. ‘You will have a wonderful time,' she told Margaret. ‘Do not be anxious for me, for I have everything I need here, and now that Mama is to return to Barton, I shall have less to do. I shall console myself with the thought that you might even form an attachment of your very own, while you are away; after all, Fanny and John have many visitors to Norland, and in town, you will find yourself in far larger society than we enjoy here at Delaford.'

Margaret laughed. ‘I don't think I care to marry, Marianne, unless I can find myself a Colonel Brandon or an Edward! At least I should not like to think of marriage until I have seen more of the world! But perhaps I shall be swept off my feet like a heroine in a novel!'

‘Then,' her sister had replied with a smile, ‘you must guard your heart, for love is not polite; it does not ask permission to enter, it creeps up when you least expect it.'

‘I shall never be taken unawares,' replied Margaret airily, ‘for is it not true that we are only given what it is we ask for? And I have never met a man, besides our dear Philip and Edward, whom I could love with all my heart, enough to give up my ideas of happiness.'

‘Your idea of happiness, Meg,' replied her sister with a laugh, ‘is to sit for hours in the window seat with the atlas! Or to run about the countryside like a wild creature! However, when you meet the right gentleman, you will feel quite differently on it. You are yet young to know your own heart. Now, don't look at me like that! But when you do go into society, beware wolves, my dearest sister, for they love to dress as sheep and the world is as full of dangers as it is of amusements! Of all people, I should know the truth of that.'

Margaret, given similar advice by Elinor only the night before, could only laugh and assure her sister that she would at all times allow Fanny and John to guide her behaviour and to choose her amusements. ‘I will be the picture of becoming behaviour—shoes and stays included—but truly, Marianne, I think you only say such things to scare me! London cannot be all that wicked and shocking, or John would not invite me to go with them! You imagine that I shall meet with my own Willoughby—but I am sure the world does not contain anyone as wicked as he! '

Besides which, she truly had no idea of marriage just yet and felt herself fortunate that her sisters had married well enough to mean that her own marriage was unnecessary to secure the futures of herself and her mama. The generosity of both Colonel Brandon and Sir John meant that she and Mama, while maintaining a modest style of living, would never want for a roof, nor warmth, nor food on their table. She owned that it would be pleasant indeed to have a partner as agreeable as Edward or the Colonel, and if she met a man she could truly love and respect, she might be persuaded into reshaping her notions of happiness to include matrimony, but she would only consider marriage to a most unusual and unique gentleman, a man who was dashing and exciting, and at the same time as kind as Edward or Philip were—someone who would enlarge her world and teach her everything she yearned to know.

As to fortune she cared little for the finer things in life, for she had only known a life of frugality, until her sisters had married. Even now, she and Mama were careful with their expenditure, even though Colonel Brandon and Sir John were both excessively generous to them and they wanted for nothing. But now she was to go to Norland and enjoy herself, and she wanted nothing more except the health and happiness of her family when she returned.

It was with these thoughts that she had kissed her friends most tenderly farewell, and mounted the carriage steps, laden with the two new gowns her mama had promised, and a light heart. It was not without regret that she left her mother, who was already crying into her handkerchief, and Marianne, whom she felt guilty at leaving, but she was eager to drive off and begin her journey, too. She was ready to venture forth into the world, ready to experience new society and new friendships, to expand all the limited notions and ideas she had gathered within the confines of Barton cottage.

The horses were whipped up at last, and the carriage moved out onto the lane. As the road behind her narrowed she drank in the newness of everything, as if thirsty for life itself. The unknown awaited her, and she welcomed it with open arms, feeling as if all her life had pointed her to this moment, and now the gates of the future had opened to invite her in, and nothing would ever be the same again.