Colonel Brandon's Diary

by Amanda Grange

  Miss Marianne persevered against this lack of attention for as long as she could and then left the pianoforte, out of spirits. I was about to go over to her and compliment her on her taste when Sir John distracted us all by saying that we must get up a picnic whilst the weather held.

  Miss Marianne’s spirits were at once restored.

  ‘Oh, yes, Sir John, that would be delightful,’ she said. ‘I am sure there are some notable beauty spots hereabouts, and I would relish the opportunity of seeing them. There is so much of Devonshire I have to discover, and I would like to begin. Mama?’

  ‘It is very kind of you, Sir John,’ said Mrs Dashwood with a smile. ‘We would like it very much.’

  ‘Good, good, then that’s settled. We’ll get up quite a party, with the Careys, the Raistricks, the Kellys and one or two other families, and have a high time of it.’

  A date was set for Saturday.

  Saturday 17 September

  A fine day for our picnic. We met in front of the house and set out at about ten o’clock. I rode beside Sir John’s carriage and as I did so I could not help admiring Miss Marianne. Her face was truly lovely, with a brown skin, tanned by the summer sun, and a brilliant complexion. Her features were regular, her smile was sweet and attractive, and her eyes were dark. It was not their colour which attracted me, however, but the life in them, for they contained a spirit and an eagerness which reminded me of my true self, the self that saw the pleasure in life, the self that I had lost when I lost Eliza.

  ‘You have a comfortable carriage,’ said Mrs Dashwood, as Sir John and I rode along by its side. She was sitting facing forwards, with her parasol held over her head.

  ‘Ay, and one I wish you would borrow so that you could mix more in the neighbourhood. It is always at your disposal, and there are any number of families who would be pleased to see you. They are gentlefolk, all, and I am persuaded they will make up to you for the friends you have left behind. You must ask for the carriage any time you want it.’

  ‘Thank you, you are very good, but we must not presume too much on your hospitality,’ she said, politely but firmly, and I realized that she did not want to be too far beholden to Sir John; she was a woman who liked her independence. ‘Besides, there are plenty of families in walking distance of the cottage. ’

  ‘And I believe we have met them all, save the family who lives in the house along the valley,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘Do you know the one I mean? The ancient mansion house about a mile and a half from the cottage. Margaret and I are planning to visit it the next time we walk in that direction. Do you know who lives there?’

  Her sister, Margaret, who, at thirteen, had been too young to join us for dinner, was excited to be joining us for the picnic. She added her own eager enquiry as to the inhabitant of the house.

  ‘Oh, yes, we want to know the name of the house and to find out who lives there,’ she said.

  ‘That would be Allenham,’ said Sir John. ‘Mrs Smith lives there.’

  ‘Mrs Smith? Does she have any children?’ asked Miss Marianne.

  ‘No, she is elderly. She keeps to her house; she is too infirm to mix with the world.’

  ‘Then I believe we now know all our neighbours, or all those who are well enough to go into company,’ said Miss Dashwood.

  We reached the picnic spot in little more than an hour. The carriages rolled to a halt and we assembled on a flat stretch of grass about halfway up the hill.

  ‘Can we not go to the top?’ asked Miss Marianne.

  ‘It is too steep for the carriages, but we can walk, if you have a mind,’ said Sir John.

  Some of the older people chose to remain where they were but the rest of us began to climb the hill. Margaret ran ahead, frolicking from one side to the other and climbing the boulders that lay scattered about, until at last we reached the summit.

  ‘Was this not worth the climb?’ asked Miss Marianne, as she gazed rapturously at the view, looking across the rolling downs to a glimmer of blue on the horizon, the sea. She began to murmur:

  ‘This sceptred isle,

  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

  This other Eden, demi-paradise,

  This fortress built by Nature for herself,

  Against infection, and the hand of war

  This happy breed of men, this little world,

  This precious stone, set in the silver sea,

  Which serves it in the office of a wall,

  Or as a moat defensive to a house,

  Against the envy of less happier lands,

  This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

  ‘And it is still England, though I am so far from home,’ she concluded in a low voice.

  There were murmurs of approval and I became aware of my surroundings once more, for I had been carried away by her poetry. There had been a strength and a vigour about her voice that had made the words, still echoing in my ears, seem fresh and new.

  We strolled around the summit until the wind rose and began to blow cold, then the others set off down the hill. Miss Marianne lingered, however, turning to face in the direction of Norland whilst the wind threatened to rip the hat from her head.

  ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

  Thou art not so unkind

  As man’s ingratitude.’

  Her words were heartfelt, and I knew where her thoughts were tending. I wanted to speak to her and to bring her some heart’s ease, if I could, for I could tell that her feelings were both strong and painful.

  ‘It hurt you when your brother failed to provide for you,’ I said.

  It was all she needed, and her thoughts came pouring out of her.

  ‘He promised our father on his deathbed that he would look after us, and yet he did nothing to help us. He and his wife arrived as soon as the funeral was over, without even giving Mama any notice of their arrival. I can still remember the look on her face when the carriage rolled up to the house and she realized that they had come to haunt us in our grief. They established themselves in the house and behaved as though it belonged to them, as though we were nothing but guests, and unwelcome guests at that. Poor Mama! How she suffered. I was angry, but Elinor said that I must hide my feelings, that Fanny and John had done nothing wrong, that it was their house from the moment my father died, and that they had a right to move in as soon as they pleased. But courtesy, common courtesy, should have prevented them from taking over with such speed and reducing my mother to the state of being a visitor in her own home!’ she broke out. ‘Poor Mama was so hurt by Fanny’s insensitivity that she would have quit the house at once, but my sister Elinor — my sensible sister — counselled against it.’

  ‘Perhaps she did not want a breach with your brother?’ I suggested.

  ‘You are right, but what price did she pay? Putting on a false face, and expecting me to put on a false face also. For my own part I was ready to leave the house at once, to save Mama from such cruelty, even though it would have hurt me terribly to leave without saying goodbye to all the places that I loved: the stream where it met the river, dimpling all the way, the corner of the walled garden, best garden of the world. And yet I would have left them all at once if Mama had asked me to.’

  She spoke with passion, and I was struck by her words, because I saw that her interest in poetry was not that of the dreamer; no, for she wanted to pull the poetry into the real world rather than turning the real world into a poem.

  I found myself growing more and more intrigued by her, for I had never come across that blend of sensibility and strength in a woman before.

  ‘You think me very impolite, I dare say, for speaking my mind,’ she continued, looking at me defiantly. ‘I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum, I am well aware of it. I should have said that my brother John is a fine man and that his wife Fanny is a beautiful and accomplished woman. I should have spoken of their dear little boy and said how much he had grown. I am sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I disdain such spirit
less deceit.’

  And then, before I had time to reply, she called to her sister, ‘Come, Margaret, let us run down the hill!’

  And the two of them were off, fleet of foot, racing towards the picnic spot with the wind in their faces and their gossamer dresses blowing around their ankles.

  But as I watched her go, I thought that she had wronged me when she had said that I wanted her to speak of commonplaces, for that is something I abhor. Indeed, one of the things that I liked about being in the army was that the men spoke their minds, and that, therefore, I quickly gained a knowledge of character that has stood me in good stead ever since.

  But women . . . I wish I understood them half so well.

  For the most part they are so well bred that it is impossible to find out if they have any thoughts and feelings at all, let alone to find out what those thoughts and feelings might be.

  Not so with Miss Marianne, who is as open and as honest as the day; squally in temperament, now stormy, now shining; and who interests me more than any woman I have met since Eliza.

  I followed her to the picnic site. About halfway down I came across Miss Carey, who was doing something with the lace of her shoe. As I approached, she rose and said, ‘My lace has broken, Colonel, would you offer me your arm.’

  ‘Willingly,’ I said.

  But as I gave it to her, I was struck with the difference between her and Miss Marianne, for I suspected that her broken lace was a ruse. It would have been disdained by Miss Marianne, for if she had wanted to walk down the hill with me, she would no doubt have said so and scandalized the entire party!

  We reached the picnic spot. It was sheltered from the wind, and a milder air prevailed.

  Mrs Jennings gave us a knowing look as we joined her on one of the rugs, and when the picnic was over, she called me a sly one and said that Miss Marianne had better look sharp lest Miss Carey should steal her beau.

  Miss Marianne, overhearing her, glanced at me, and all of a sudden I saw the disadvantages of total honesty, for, by her look, it was clear that she did not know whether to reprimand Mrs Jennings for her impertinence or laugh at her for her absurdity.

  Alas for my pride! The disparity in age might not trouble Mrs Jennings, but it was obvious that it troubled Miss Marianne; indeed, that it rendered the idea of a connexion between us ridiculous in her eyes.

  Perhaps, when she has grown up a little, she will not see it as such a disadvantage, for despite my protestations I find myself increasingly attracted to her. She has a vitality that has aroused my interest in life again.

  Sunday 18 September

  ‘Well, Colonel, have you decided which one it is to be?’ asked Mrs Jennings good-naturedly this morning as we returned from church. ‘Miss Marianne or Miss Carey? ’

  ‘I have no intention of marrying,’ I said, to silence her.

  ‘Intention? Intention? Of course you have no intention, no man ever does. Mr Palmer had no intention of marrying my Charlotte until I put it to him. “Wouldn’t you like a pretty little thing like that for a wife?” I asked him, and he had to admit that he would.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sir John told me Charlotte was married. I congratulate you.’

  ‘Never a better man was there than Mr Palmer, unless it is Sir John,’ she said with satisfaction.

  I was glad to have diverted her and, the children entering the room at the moment, I was left in peace.

  Tuesday 20 September

  I declined to accompany Sir John on his walk this morning, for I had some letters to write, but when he returned he had something to tell.

  ‘I called in at the cottage on my way home,’ he said.

  ‘And how are the Misses Dashwood?’ asked Mrs Jennings, with a knowing glance at me. ‘Was Miss Marianne at the pianoforte, practising for the Colonel? I tease her about it often and often. “What! Are you setting your cap at him? And a good thing, too, for he is worth winning!” Ah, yes, Colonel, you are in luck there!’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Sir John. ‘You have missed your chance, Brandon. Miss Marianne has another beau now.’

  He told us that she had been out for a walk with her younger sister when it had come on to rain. Running down the hill to get home, she had fallen and sprained her ankle, and a passing gentleman had rendered her his assistance by carrying her home.

  ‘What a pity it didn’t happen yesterday. You were out in the rain then, Colonel. I distinctly remember you coming in from your ride with your hair all soaking wet. If you had only gone out this morning instead of writing letters, it could have been you carrying her home!’ said Mrs Jennings to me. ‘But you were too slow!’ She turned to Sir John. ‘What is his name? I must know who to tease her about the next time she dines here, for if there is one thing a young lady loves, it is being teased about her beaux!’

  I thought that she had entirely misjudged Miss Marianne, and said so, but she only laughed and said, ‘Tush! Colonel, and what do you know about it? But never fear, we will find you another wife. Oh, yes, one will come along, I have no doubt of it, one even handsomer than Miss Marianne. A man of your fortune was not meant to be single.’

  ‘You will never guess who it was,’ said Sir John, eager to impart his news.

  Mrs Jennings abandoned her teasing of me and looked at him impatiently.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Willoughby!’ he declared, with the air of one who surprises the room.

  ‘Willoughby!’ she said with delight. And then said, ‘I do not recognize the name. No, I do not know him, I am sure.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I do, and he is a very good fellow, I assure you. He is down here every year. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.’

  ‘Well, then!’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘A fine catch, by the sound of it.’

  ‘He is at that. A pleasant, good-humoured gentleman, with the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw, though the ladies could not tell me if she was out with him today.’

  ‘Never mind about his pointer. Tell me more about him,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘Is he young, old, handsome, rich?’

  ‘Young and handsome, certainly, and a fine dancer into the bargain. I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the Park, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sitting down.’

  ‘That is something in his favour, for I’ll wager Miss Marianne likes to dance. And does he have a house here?’

  ‘As to that, no,’ Sir John admitted.

  ‘Then what is he doing here?’

  ‘He is staying with Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Mrs Smith? The lady at Allenham Court?’ asked Mary.

  ‘He is some kind of relation, her heir by all accounts,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Her heir,’ said Mrs Jennings, impressed. ‘So he will inherit Allenham? ’

  ‘He will indeed, and a tidy sum besides. And that is not all,’ said Sir John. ‘He has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire.’

  ‘Then he is very well worth catching,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘I would like to see her well settled. You will have to look sharp, Colonel, else you will lose her!’

  ‘I put in a good word for Brandon, never fear,’ said Sir John, looking at me. ‘Told her you would be jealous if she did not take care. I teased her about setting her cap at you. “That is an expression which I particularly dislike,” she said!’

  He laughed uproariously and I imagined Miss Marianne’s pained expression at his coarseness.

  Mrs Jennings joined him, slapping her knees as she rocked back and forth.

  Gradually they sobered.

  ‘I promised to ride over to Allenham and see Willoughby tomorrow, and invite him to dinner on Friday,’ said Sir John.

  ‘You had better look lively, then, Colonel, if you want her. You had better speak on Thursday!’ Mrs Jennings said.

  I took no notice of her, but I could not help feeling an interest in Willoughby, all the same.

  Friday 23 September

  We were a small party at dinn
er, just ourselves, the Dashwoods and Willoughby.

  He was as young and handsome as Sir John had said, but although he was charming, lively and amusing, being fond of singing and dancing, and an expert in flirtation besides, I thought little of him for I had met his kind before. I knew that he would also be shallow and selfish, caring nothing for anyone’s feelings but his own. A not uncommon type: adept at making friends but not at keeping them, easily distracted and unreliable.

  Miss Marianne was, however, attracted to him, for he was, at first glance, very desirable. They spent the evening talking together with great animation. She had neither shyness nor reserve and she spoke about her thoughts and feelings with such rapturous delight that it was small wonder that he agreed with her on everything, or, if he disagreed, he did so only for the pleasure of letting her talk him round. Who would not have agreed with so much beauty?

  She had only to mention a book and it was a favourite of his; or to say, rapturously, that Mozart was divine, in order to have him say that Mozart was the only composer who deserved the title of genius; or to speak slightingly of second marriages to find out that he, too, thought that second attachments were impossible.

  I could not agree with her on the latter, and I was surprised to find that my feelings on the subject had changed, because, for a long time, I thought the same. But I am beginning to think that second attachments, happy second attachments, might be possible: Miss Marianne is the child of a second marriage, and her mother has nothing but good to say of her experiences.

  Saturday 24 September

  I cannot decide if I am grateful to Willoughby for making Miss Marianne happy or if I am jealous of him; though to be jealous of him seems absurd, when he is so much younger than I am, and when there is nothing of substance about him, and when, indeed, I am not courting Miss Marianne. He sings, he dances, he charms — because he can do nothing else. As I watched him talking to her this evening, I found myself wondering if, when the first flush of excitement has passed, he will be enough for Miss Marianne, for she is intelligent and she feels things deeply, whereas he is all surface, with nothing underneath.