by Lauren Lane
She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel’s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
“But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?”
“Infirmity!” said Elinor, “do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!”
At Elinor’s accusation, Marianne’s mind went immediately to one limb in particular. Admittedly, she was not anything near an expert on the subject, but she had to imagine that a man of Colonel Brandon’s advanced age surely must not even be able to consummate a marriage! Marianne wanted passion and would not settle for anything less. How dare her sister and mother even suggest such a thing! Did they not want her to have children of her own some day?
Of course, she could not very well speak these thoughts aloud, lest she betray her true motivations — motivations that she felt certain no one, save perhaps the unrefined Mrs. Jennings — would deign to approve of. So she instead opted for: “Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?”
“My dearest child,” said her mother, laughing, “at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.”
“Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But,” she added cautiously, “thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.”
“Perhaps,” said Elinor, “thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon’s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying her.”
“A woman of seven and twenty,” said Marianne, after pausing a moment, “can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other.”
And if I were to reach the tragic age of seven and twenty without ever experiencing the physical and emotional love of a man, she added silently, I should jump from a cliff to put myself out of my misery.
“It would be impossible, I know,” replied Elinor, “to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders.”
“But he talked of flannel waistcoats,” said Marianne; “and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble.”
“Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?”
Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room, “Mamma,” said Marianne, “I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?”
“Had you any idea of his coming so soon?” said Mrs. Dashwood. “I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?”
“I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.”
“I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time.”
“How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! How cold, how composed were they during that final breakfast! And then there is the matter of Edward remaining so conspicuously absent during our farewells — I’d never thought him rude, certainly not in comparison with his sister, but such behaviour is not only bad form, it is truly baffling! And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?”
CHAPTER IX
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John’s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood’s spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of
a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne’s declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations.
“Is there a felicity in the world,” said Marianne, “superior to this? — Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.”
Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety, — it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
Left injured, wet, and alone, Marianne looked skyward and prayed once again for a man of her own — one who not only possessed a pleasing countenance, the good opinions of her sisters and mother, and an abundant fortune, but who worshipped her so much as to never wish to leave her side, so that she may never find herself in such an undesirable predicament again.
Though Marianne had wished for such a lover many times before to no avail, this time, her prayers received an answer. A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He was dark and handsome, the sharp lines of his brow and shadow of his day-old whiskers adding an air of mystery and ruggedness to his already appealing face. The pouring rain rendered his clothing tight against his body, and provided Marianne an intimate glance at his masculine form. His shoulders were broad and strong, his chiseled torso narrowed into a trim waist, and his thigh muscles bulged through his moisture-soaked breeches.
Despite the rain, Marianne’s mouth grew dry as she took in the dark hairs covering his chest, visible through his transparent white shirt. Her ailing foot all but forgotten, she felt her fingers twitch as she yearned to reach out, untie his collar, and run her hands through that thicket of masculine curls.
He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, asked her where she was injured.
Marianne’s mouth was still too dry to speak, and even had she been physically able to form words she would not have trusted herself to push aside her wanton thoughts enough to properly comply with demands of decorum. So she merely pointed to her injury.
The gentleman’s dark eyes stared deep into Marianne’s own as his agile hands gently removed her shoe and felt for signs of a break. Marianne’s breath sped up and she licked her lips, tasting a combination of rainwater, sweat, and longing.
“It does not appear to be broken, miss,” he said, though his hands did not leave her skin.
“That’s quite a relief,” she replied, finding her voice at last. “How may I ever thank you for your kindness?”
In response, his mouth turned up at one corner and his eyes, now sparkling with a desire that mirrored Marianne’s own, drifted hungrily from her face, down her slick, pale neck and heaving breast, past her skirts to her naked foot. Then as his gaze, heated despite the cold rain that continued to fall, traveled back up the way in which it had come, his hands moved along with it, over her ankles, under her skirts, and up the silky smoothness of her thighs.
His hands stopped before they crossed into the place where Marianne’s own moisture — moisture that had nothing to do with the saturated ground on which she sat — pooled. His eyes found hers again and he waited, silently questioning.
That small showing of uncertainty, that gesture of chivalry in an encounter that had left all sense of propriety and manners behind ages ago filled Marianne’s heart and amplified her own courage. She leaned forward, her face now just inches from where this mysterious stranger leaned over her, and said, “Dear sir, if you stop now I fear I may die.”
His eyes flashed with lust and a low groan escaped his throat as he closed the gap between them and took her mouth hungrily. Marianne gasped as their lips met, for until this moment she’d only dreamt of what it would be like to kiss a man, but she soon recovered from the pure heavenliness of the sensation and opened her mouth to allow his tongue entry. His breath was warm and his mouth was hard and she drank him in eagerly, threading her hands through his soaking wet hair and pulling him as close to herself as she could manage.
The couple fell back onto the grass and rolled over the muddy ground with no regard for how they may look to others when their interlude reached its end and they were forced to return to society.
His hands once again found their place under Marianne’s dress and this time he did not pause — a rain-slick finger met with Marianne’s desire-slick center and slid inside with no pretense. Marianne cried out with pleasure at the sensation, and kissed him even harder as he slid another finger inside and began to caress her from the inside.
His hand began to move faster, thrusting more firmly inside her, and Marianne found herself arching into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, wanting him deeper, wanting this pleasure to never end. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced. She did not know where this sense of wild abandonment came from, nor did she care that she did not know this man’s name nor that they were lying on the ground and that the skies were open and emptying upon them. She only cared that romance, excitement, adventure had found her at last and she never wanted to let it go.
Acting on instinct, Marianne reached down and found that the gentleman had reached a state of arousal as well. Mustering up her courage, she slid her hand inside his breeches and came into contact with his long, hard manhood. It was smoother than she’d imagined and she involuntarily clenched her inner muscles around his hand as she imagined what it might be like to have this inside of her.
She hoped she would get the chance to find out, though she knew that would require quite another level of undress and that this was neither the time nor place. Instead, she wrapped her hand around him and matched the actions of his own hands, caress for caress and thrust for thrust. As he went faster, so did she, and soon they were both crying out in ecstasy.
He
collapsed on top of her and they both lay there, willing their breath to return to them and letting the realization of what had just happened wash over them like the rain.
As she floated back to the present, Marianne slowly removed her hand and let the rain wash away the remnants of her beautiful stranger’s completion. She gazed up at the sky, a blissful smile coloring her face.
After a long, still moment, he pushed his hair off his face, stared into her eyes, and lowered himself down to her for a long, loving kiss. His voice was gruff when he said, “If I am wise, my darling, I shall never let you out of my sight again.”
He took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.