“It says the infant is yet frail and sickly,” declared Mrs. Sotherby. “I believe she cannot be in good spirits with her child so sick–and the physician Goodmore has done next to nothing to cure the child, it seems.”
Her sister Lydia, made a tisking sound. “There’s nothing to be had in good physicians these days,” she declared, “except my Mr. Applebee. Now, there is a physician who knows something of proper medicine.”
“Are we to leave London early, Mama?” asked Julia. “I should not like to go before the Russell’s dinner. Charlotte, you know, has not seen all the warehouses yet and has yet to choose a hat for her traveling costume.”
“We shall not go early if it can be helped,” said Mrs. Sotherby. “I should prefer above all things to wait until Mr. Sotherby is no longer burdened by the legislature. But it may not be helped, and if so, I must persuade Sir Edward to let Marianne come away with us in a week’s time or so.”
“Marianne is to come?” said Julia, who was slightly pleased at the thought of having her cousin present, since Charlotte’s engagement made her less companionable to her sister. “That would be nice, indeed.”
“Much nicer for her than for you,” said Mrs. Sotherby. “I suspect you shall have made a match by the Little Season, and if not, by next year, of course–but I despair of Marianne unless she grows more fond of society.”
Julia had blushed at the mention of her own match. “But does not Marianne have a suitor already? I have heard something from Captain Dennick–” here, the blush grew deeper, “–of Captain Lindley having a fancy for her since they met in Esher.”
“That would be well enough if it were so,” answered her mother, “since Miss Marianne has no interest in any other, it seems; but she has seen nothing of him in London that I can tell. Nor has she as much as spoken his name to her father or had the young man speak on his behalf.”
Lydia tisked again. “Not every girl has sense to make a match, Myrah,” she said. “You should be pleased that Charlotte has such a sound mind and none of the hesitation of Miss Marianne.”
“Where is Marianne?” said Mrs. Sotherby, realizing suddenly that they had been speaking of the cousin in question for some time without fear of her hearing them.
“She strolled a bit ahead, Mama–oh, there she is! Oh, Mama, should she be playing in such a fashion?” asked Julia. For Marianne was no longer watching her cousins’ at play–she had tucked up her skirts and was batting with a vigor, striking the pitch with ease and frolicking about with the same energy and speed as the young Dorothea.
“Marianne!” Mrs. Sotherby rose from the bench. “Come away from there this instant!” Hurrying forth, she was bent upon retrieving her young cousin from such a public display of hoyden tendencies as Marianne caught hold of the youngest Linnet’s hands and swung him upwards as he chortled with glee.
From a distance as she strolled along the path with her mother, the elegant Miss Ashford observed Marianne’s sport and the hasty interruption of Mrs. Sotherby a moment later.
“What a dreadfully wild creature is Marianne Stuart,” she observed. “I rather wonder at her relatives doing anything with her except sending her away to be a governess.”
“For all her beauty, she will never make a match worth noticing in society,” was Mrs. Ashford’s languid reply.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I would not have you go, of course,” Sir Edward answered, with a grumble. “For what good did it do before? Last time I left you in Mrs. Sotherby’s care, you returned with a proposal refused and another suitor driven away.”
His temper was not improved by the summer cold which persisted in Sir Edward’s head despite a great many teas and much rest. The persistence of Mrs. Sotherby and her mother was another matter which plagued Sir Edward, and one he heartily desired to release him as quickly as possible.
“I disliked being at Norland Park, so I do not wish to go back,” said Marianne. “But I do not wish you angry at me, either. Only because I have never become as proper as Flora.”
Her father sighed. “It is only that I worry about you,” he said. “Your future. I would not wish to see you a dependent upon your brother or your sister for shelter. I would wish you the happiness of your own home and a full life.”
“I would wish for those things also,” said Marianne. “I wish they could be had without society’s scheming, however. Without pretending to be interested in things which bore me–or far worse, pretending to be bored by things which interest me greatly. I am dishonest by doing so; and it does not make me think kindly of anyone who demands it of me.”
There were only a few who did not–Mr. Nimbley and Captain Lindley among them. If her father wished to chide her for lost opportunities he might do so by mentioning either name, of course.
“It was not Mrs. Sotherby’s fault that I was unhappy,” Marianne ventured, feeling slightly ashamed of her former protests. “It was my own, I suppose. Having to pretend to be a proper young lady, then being surprised–surprised by the declaration of another.” She lowered her eyes with this statement: even now, Sir Edward had never been acquainted with the details of Marianne’s refusal, only its vaguest suggestion.
“Then we shall talk no more of it,” Sir Edward answered. “You shall remain at home with me until we go to Donnelly Hall for Christmas. When you go into society next Season, your sister will chaperone you as before–and your good aunt, of course.”
“Then there would be no possibility of not going into society, I suppose,” ventured Marianne.
“Is it so dreadful to you, to see the people you have known all your life?” Sir Edward’s voice held a thread of irritation.
“No,” Marianne answered, meekly. “It is the pretending to which I object; and that I seem to do my family and friends more harm than good by my failures.”
“Nonsense,” answered Sir Edward, rather severely. After a moment, he softened slightly.
“Perhaps,” he said, gently, “there will come along a young man who will be found not to be lacking so much in your estimation.”
What would he say regarding Captain Lindley’s offer? She did not wish to know at this moment, since it would not improve her father's mood.
At the conclusion of this subject, he devoted his attention to a heavy grog meant to relieve his symptoms, but succeeding only in making him doze before the fire once again.
Marianne sat at the window in the hall outside her chamber, watching the summer rain beat down upon the streets, a shower which would give rise to steam upon its stones and an oppressive atmosphere of heat once it was over. Chin resting upon her hands, she crouched there as the last hours for sunlight slipped away.
She was curled upon her bed late into the night, without either night cap or gown as she contemplated sleep. In the candle's light, her gaze rested upon the bird’s nest and the cardboard box on her night table. Two such similar gifts, she realized; each a hollow shell which represented something else between the parties connected by its discovery. In the case of Captain Lindley's, she pictured his charm and kindness, the warmth of his touch as he helped her escape from her predicament in the park.
It was during these thoughts that she became aware of the bell ringing at the front of the house, audible despite the patter of another rain shower. Sitting up, she slid from her bed and crept across the hall to peer out the window, seeing a man's figure upon their steps. The housekeeper was in her gown and wrap as she answered the door, where a man in an oilskin coat and the garb of a sailor waited.
"Is this the house of the Stuarts of London?" he inquired. "I have a delivery for t'lady of the house if it be so."
"It is," Madge answered, stiffly. "Have you no sense to go to the rear entrance, sir?" The sailor, it appeared did not hear her, continuing to shout over the rain as if she had not spoken.
"Me captain's brought a shipment in late to port; and there's a man who charged him with a package on 'is behalf. Seein' as I was on my way to London, me captain charged it to me when I
struck off with the deliveryman what's to carry part of our cargo to a Mr. Walter Nimbley–only the package in my charge was to the house of a Sir Ed'ard Stuart..."
At this point, he produced a thick packet from beneath his coat, its paper bound with string. A third party had appeared in this conversation, Sir Edward in his nightcap, his eyes drowsy with sleep.
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded. "Is it not late at night for such interruptions?"
"T'package to the lady o' the house," repeated the sailor, handing the bundle to Madge. "With best wishes from he who sent it." Tipping his cap, he waited expectantly until the good woman, with a sigh, produced a coin from Sir Edward's purse in the library. Then the sailor-turned-messenger pocketed it with a word of thanks and struck out in the rainy darkness, whistling a tune beneath his breath.
Sir Edward stared at the bundle in Madge's hand. "What on earth is the meaning of this?" he demanded. Marianne had appeared upon the stairs, slightly disheveled from her attempts at sleep beforehand.
"Marianne?" he repeated. She did not answer as she took the package in the housekeeper's hand and unknotted the string, the paper tumbling to the floor to reveal a folded sheet of brightly-printed fabric unlike any Marianne had seen in the shops of London. Coarse threads with a close weave, its wine-red dyes taking on a watery effect as she unfurled it towards the floor.
"What on earth is it?" asked Madge. Sir Edward scowled.
"Is this someone's idea of a joke?" he asked. "Perhaps some thoughtless acquaintance has sent you a gift from abroad–either way, it's a nuisance to have it delivered in such a strange fashion as this."
"I know," Marianne answered, although her voice was so low it was scarcely audible. "I would venture its sender did not think it would arrive in such a dramatic fashion." Its sender, she was quite certain of, even without the familiar handwriting upon the package itself.
"I hope the next time Mrs. Sanford or whoever it may be takes it into their head to purchase some outlandish memento, they have the sense to present it in person upon their return home." With this gruff proclamation, he betook himself upstairs again.
When her father and Madge were gone, Marianne bent low and lifted a square of paper which had fallen from the bundle of fabric. A note folded tightly, which she opened once she retreated into her own room again.
Dear Miss Stuart: I have purchased the following for you from a native woman I met along one of the many paths which connects the friendlier tribes. Its beauty and her obvious skill in such work persuaded me that it would please you; and I believe she accepted my coin as much for the novelty of its appearance as I was charmed by her fabric. No doubt a coin of the British realm will now be forever worn as a pretty charm by a native woman in these jungles.
I would send you more of my sketches, but I can scarce send enough to John and my father, who have begun to take an interest in my natural studies–more than they ever have before, it seems. But I shall save the best of all for you, Miss Marianne, for I know that your appreciation is as constant in these matters as your character. A conviction which I am now ashamed I did not share at the moment you charged me with my folly of taking up the law.
If you have received my letters favorably, Miss Stuart– willingly, I mean to say–I wish you would send me word. Send me a letter in the charge of one my uncle's captains since I return every week to the port to receive word, though I lose sleep or study by such effort. Otherwise, I shall no longer trouble you with my thoughts, if it has made you unhappy to continue our acquaintance after the parting we made at Norland Park.
If I should not receive word from you, and you have read this despite your dismay over my weakness, then I must thank you for the harshness of your words to me that afternoon. For they have saved me from a career which would have made me miserable, and a life which I believe would have disappointed even my kindhearted father.
With kindest regards,
Your humble Servant,
Adam Nimbley
She read it over and over again by the light of her candle, its flame growing weaker as it burned low. In her haste to reach pen and paper, she almost upset the ink stand upon her desk before thinking better of such a decision.
She must have a clearer mind, a clearer conscience if she would write him. For he praised her for her constancy–she, who had not be constant in her notion that she would not marry for the sake of pleasing others or merely for the possibility of escaping London.
Could she say that she had obeyed it fully? For was she not entertaining an agreement which would perhaps confine her to the very life she rejected in his offer. If he were to meet her under these circumstances, it would be his turn to scorn her insincerity. A painful thought indeed.
He wished to address her as a friend, an honest counselor; and her response must be one of an honest friend in return, since she had no right to assume anything else.
Sinking upon the edge of the bed, she held the unfolded letter in her hand as she considered its words. Her mind wandered to the memory of Captain Lindley's words upon her character. You are not ruled by propriety. She was free of fear with regards to society's connections; the very thing which made Adam Nimbley uncomfortable in their friendship and charmed Captain Lindley at the same time.
Both had known her in her most honest and undisguised manner; both had endeavored to hold this aspect of her character in esteem. Each had asked for her hand because of this–but had either one promised her the possibility of a different life than any other woman in society?
She folded the letter and carefully placed it beneath the butterfly's box upon her table. With a puff of breath, she blew out her candle and relegated the objects of these affections to the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had been a Tuesday, the day upon which Marianne had discovered the bird's nest in the Park. On the next Tuesday afternoon, Marianne had crept from the drawing room and collected her bonnet without attracting the notice of Sir Edward, half-asleep in the library with a cup of medicinal tea.
She hurried towards the Park, hoping that no one of her acquaintance would be passing and notice her–suppose Mrs. Sotherby in her carriage should pass by, capable of sparing a seat despite the pile of boxes from Charlotte's purchase of new bonnets and hats? But no such carriage appeared; and with a sigh of relief, Marianne entered the green haven of the Park.
A summer breeze fanned the strings of her bonnet and a few stray curls as she walked slowly along its paths. Her eye glanced curiously from the trees and landscaped grounds to the figures moving ahead upon the path. Would he be here? Perhaps he had left London already and returned to his regiment.
She seated herself upon a bench in the grounds, attempting to look as if the general scenery interested her, the song of a bird nestled nearby in the branches. A young woman in pink lawn strolled by upon a young gentleman's arm, her parasol shielding her face from the sun. A governess and two small children appeared in view, then disappeared again behind the row of hedges.
At length, he came. She saw a glimpse of red, then the familiar figure strolling towards her. Although it was not necessary, she rose and greeted him, extending her hand for his grasp.
"You have kept your promise, Miss Stuart," he said.
"And you, yours," she reminded him. "I thought you would have changed your mind. That my length–my long silence would have deserved such neglect on your part."
"Did I not promise you all the time you would wish?" he asked. "I said I would not leave London without hearing an answer from your lips; so I could not leave until we had met again." He took her arm in his own as they walked along the path.
"I am to leave for the Indies in another two months' time," he said. "I shall be away, with only the scant society of British colonists to amuse me until I return."
"But there is society in those places, at least," said Marianne. "There are forts and merchants and traders, there are even women and children in its cities. And there are many natives who might need ai
d or comfort, or protection from those who would ill-treat them." She glanced at his face, meeting his eyes with these words.
He looked away. "There is a little," he answered, "but for the soldier, there can be no cares except his duty, so long as he is confined to his post. He must take his chances on being of use or being amused, upon the whim of government."
They were silent again. The first to speak after a long moment was Marianne.
"I had thought your resolve that you would not share your post with a wife was not fixed," she said. "That you would believe a woman capable of sharing in an officer's life with equal enthusiasm to the wife of a successful trader who shares her husband's labors. I felt certain that you were not so determined, for did you not give me reason to believe otherwise?"
Her mind was fixed upon the compliments he had paid her before. In that moment beside the pond, when he praised her lack of timidity upon the suggestion of danger or death. Her eyes glancing at his face.
"Are there too many limitations for one who waits?" he asked. "With the promise that if something can be done sooner, than life in London might give way to a life in the countryside?"
They passed beneath the shade of a natural canopy, where he stopped and took her hands in both of his own. "I would not have the cares of an officer whose wife accompanies him," he said. "I would release you from society, Marianne, but only when I have earned the living which allows me to do so. Only when I can trust that poverty belongs only to my independence, for it would be intolerable with a wife."
Her gaze lowered to the walkway beneath. "Then I must be honest," she said, speaking the words with difficulty. "I have affection for you; and indeed, your praise has been warm and persuaded me at times that I must accept. But–" she withdrew her hands, gently, "–I cannot marry you."
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