If I am honest, I have been glad of the excuse that Jamie’s illness gave me for putting the visit off. Not because I do not like Eliza—I do. Or at least, in so far as I can say that I know her, I do. But all the way to her cottage, I kept thinking that perhaps I ought to have left the task of breaking the news of Willoughby’s return to Elinor after all. Because I had no idea of what I ought to say. How to tell her that the man who had seduced and abandoned her and left her to bear his illegitimate child all alone was now living not three miles distant from her and that very child?
Eliza’s little girl Joanna was outside when I arrived at their cottage. Joanna was playing with her dolls, but as soon as she saw me, she jumped up and ran to greet me and dragged me inside. She is five years old—small and sturdily built, with curling dark hair and thickly-lashed dark eyes. Her dresses are practically never tidy, and she is practically never still—and even less seldom is she silent. She is interested in everything and has very decided opinions about the world.
Even as she towed me inside, she was pouring out a story at a rate that would have rivalled Mrs. Jennings herself. Something about how her mama had not let her go out to play until she had finished practising her letters on her slate this morning, and did not I think that was terribly unfair?
She demanded that last as we came into the cottage’s small sitting room, so that her mother caught the final words. I saw Eliza’s lips twitch as she struggled not to smile, but she said, briskly, “Yes, well, if you have finished telling Miss Dashwood what an ogre I am, you can go back outside to play now.”
Which made Joanna race off again—though not before she had extracted a promise from me to come and join her soon, so that I might see the collection of wildflowers she had picked and the earthworm she had dug up from the flowers’ roots.
Eliza looked after her daughter and sighed, a brief flicker of weariness showing in her eyes. Like Joanna, Eliza has dark hair and eyes, but actually they look very little alike. Eliza is tall and slim and fine boned, where Joanna is strong and sturdy looking. Eliza’s skin is very much fairer than Joanna’s sun-kissed tan. Joanna’s hair curls in wild ringlets, where Eliza’s is glossy and straight. She is Marianne’s age almost exactly—twenty-one. Though she had Joanna when she was just sixteen. Younger than I am now. By the time she was my age, she had been a mother already for two years.
We heard the front door to the cottage open and then close with a bang, and Eliza sighed again. “Most days, it is all I can do to persuade her into cleaning her teeth properly. How I am ever going to manage when it comes to influencing her on matters of actual importance—”
I could—or I thought I could—understand her fear. Eliza is Colonel Brandon’s ward, the natural daughter of his first boyhood love. Her mother was seduced and then abandoned by her father. Just as she was left by Willoughby to bear a natural daughter like herself. Eliza must worry constantly that Joanna will repeat the same family pattern. Though to judge by Joanna’s character now, I should say that if her mother finds it difficult to influence her behaviour, so at least will any glib-tongued young man.
I did not say that, though—such a statement would almost certainly have cut too close to the bone, and besides, it is not as though Eliza and I are in any way intimate friends. In any case, Eliza’s slight frown almost instantly smoothed out into her usual calm, composed expression, and she said, “But you did not come to talk of Joanna. Please”—she gestured to one of the sitting room’s comfortable upholstered chairs—“sit down. Will you take some refreshment? Lemonade—or tea?”
The day was a little cooler than before the rain, but still very hot. And my throat prickled with dryness after standing so long at the pasture fence, hoping that Star might grow accustomed to the sight of me and cease her panic, even if she did not approach. But I shook my head to Eliza’s offer.
“No—thank you.” I could not tell how long it might be before Joanna decided to come bursting back into the room, eager to display another earthworm or black beetle she had found—and it seemed as though I had better get the news out as quickly as possible, while Eliza and I were alone.
She took it very quietly. I do not know what I expected—perhaps that hearing of Willoughby’s being so close by might cause at least a small crack in her self-control. But there was none, or practically none.
Unlike her daughter, Eliza is always scrupulously neat about her person and dress—even if her clothes are plain and practical enough to verge on the ugly. Today she was wearing a white apron over a high-necked dress of brown gingham. As I spoke Willoughby’s name, her fingers clenched on a fold of the apron and her face lost a little of its colour. But she said, only, “I see.” Her voice was even, very controlled. “Thank you for telling me.”
And then at that moment—true to my premonition—Joanna came bursting back into the room, seized my hands, and demanded that I come and look at King—her puppy—who was sleeping in the kitchen, so that I might see whether I did not think him very much improved from how he was before.
I got up to follow her. But I lingered in the doorway, looking back at Eliza and wondering whether there was something more I could say—or do—to help.
Five years ago, when Joanna was born, Colonel Brandon settled Eliza in a still more remote spot in the country. Because of course she was ruined and disgraced in the eyes of the world—doubly so, because of her uncertain parentage. And that is what society demands should be done with girls in her unfortunate situation: tidy them and the evidence of their misbehaviour away so that everyone can pretend that they and their unlucky babies never existed at all.
But Marianne would not hear of that for Eliza; soon after her marriage to Colonel Brandon, she insisted that Eliza and Joanna be brought to the Delaford estate to live.
Marianne never precisely said as much—at least not to me—but I think she felt that she might herself so very, very easily have ended up in Eliza’s exact case: ruined by Willoughby and then left alone to raise an illegitimate child. Which made her all the more determined to do everything she could for Eliza and Joanna. Eliza is not generally received by the ‘best’ families in the neighbourhood—even Marianne does not have so much influence as that. But she does—when she can be persuaded to, at least—occasionally dine in company at the mansion house. And of course Elinor, Marianne, and I go to visit her often.
But for all that, I cannot say that she and I have come anywhere close to developing a true friendship with Eliza. I am not sure that any of us has, really. I said before that I like Eliza—and I do. She is pleasant, good-tempered, and not without a sense of humour, either. Beyond those generalities, though, I do not feel as though I truly know very much of her at all.
Her heart-shaped face looks as though she ought to be high-spirited and merry—also like Marianne. And yet she never is. Never that I have seen. Not that she is mournful or self-pitying, either. Eliza is invariably calm, collected, and composed—as though she never speaks without first carefully weighing and considering her words. But it is more than that. I feel, always, as though she has erected a pane of glass between herself and the world—allowing all those whom she meets to see, but never quite reach, her.
Looking at her today, I could not help but wonder what she really felt about Willoughby’s inexplicable arrival in the neighbourhood—about Willoughby in general, come to that. Is she ever angry that all life’s usual choices were effectively closed off from her when she was only sixteen? Girls are considered ‘ruined’ if they so much as kiss a man to whom they are not engaged—much less get with child at an unwedded sixteen. And of course, no respectable young man could wish to marry a girl who had already borne another man’s baby, so it is not as though Eliza can hope ever to marry.
Yet Willoughby was perfectly free to return to his old life. To woo Marianne and break her heart, to marry proud, disagreeable Miss Sophia Grey for her money, and finally to inherit his wealthy aunt’s estate.
Some who know of his past behaviour may dislike him,
certainly, and judge him too much a libertine to be considered truly a gentleman. But nothing worse than that will ever befall him for what he has done. Which, if I were Eliza Williams, would make me boilingly angry, both with Willoughby and with the utterly disparate standards by which male and female behaviour are judged.
If Eliza herself feels anything of the kind, though, there was no sign of it today. She looked up at me as I lingered in the doorway and said, “It’s all right. Go on and let Joanna show you King.” And then she smiled at her daughter, who was dancing around me with impatience. Joanna is the only one with whom Eliza does not seem closed off and controlled, the only one whom she does not hold at arm’s length. “She has been longing for you to come this last week, at least. King does seem much improved. Joanna has even taught him a trick or two—though she will want to show you those herself.”
To judge by her tone, no one would have thought Eliza had anything in her mind beyond the health of Joanna’s puppy and his newly acquired tricks. And since I could scarcely say that no one in her situation could possibly be taking the news with such calm, or demand that she tell me what her real feelings on the matter are, I followed Joanna into the kitchen, admired King’s tricks—and then took my leave.
But a strange thing happened just as I was leaving Eliza’s cottage. Or if not strange, at least curious. The cottage—like Delaford itself—is quite near to the turnpike road; indeed, one can see the front of the cottage from the road, though through a slight screen of trees. And as I came out of the cottage door, I saw a carriage parked there in the road. A very handsome carriage, too—a huge black chaise-and-four, drawn by a team of pure white horses. I thought perhaps they might have broken down, or had one of the horses cast a shoe. But the coachman and footman were not doing anything—just sitting there, as though they were waiting for something.
And then as I approached, I heard a voice—a high, strident, woman’s voice, sharp with the ring of authority—from inside the carriage give the driver a command to go on. The coachman picked up the reins and the carriage rolled off, bouncing a little over the ruts that the recent rain has left in the road. I caught just a glimpse of the passenger inside through the open window: a small, ramrod-stiff figure in what looked like a very expensive gown of blue silk. Though it was impossible to tell more about her appearance or even age, for her bonnet was trimmed with a heavy lace veil that completely obscured her face.
Wednesday 9 June 1802
And just when I had—very nearly, at least—persuaded myself that there was no real cause for worry over Marianne:
Mrs. Palmer and I were alone at the breakfast table this morning. Marianne had sent word down that she was feeling a little unwell, and was staying abed to rest. And Mr. Palmer had gulped down his tea and cold ham with mustard as fast as he possibly could, scowled at the window and said that the heat was vile, and made still more disgusting by the recent rain. And then he escaped our company—probably to seek solitude in the billiard room or the library.
Not that I can entirely blame him; if I were married to Mrs. Palmer, I would very likely seize every opportunity I had for seeking solitude, too.
So far, this journal seems to be filling with little else but my qualifying and trying to explain my own unkind descriptions of those I meet. But I do not mean that I mislike Charlotte Palmer or that there is any harm in her. It is rather remarkable, really; I have never met anyone quite like her. It is impossible not to feel constantly irritated by her—and yet it is equally impossible to actively dislike her.
She is quite young—only a year or two older than Elinor—and pretty in a plump-cheeked, round-eyed way. And she has absolutely the happiest disposition of anyone I have ever encountered. Absolutely everything seems to delight and amuse her.
When I first arrived at Delaford, she described her accident to me—which apparently occurred when she tumbled off of a stepladder in the library: “I thought at first that it was only badly sprained—but then the surgeon came and said that it was broken after all. A broken ankle—is that not the most ridiculous thing? How I laughed when he told me! And now I have to go about with this cane until it is healed. Mr. Palmer said that I looked like … Well, I forget exactly what it was he said that I looked like, but it was very droll. I am sure that I laughed and laughed.”
She and Mr. Palmer have one child—a boy, who is about three and a half years old. The only (slight) blemish in her happiness is that William is home at their own estate of Cleveland in Somersetshire. “I miss him excessively, to be sure,” Charlotte told me. “But Mr. Palmer said that he was probably getting into all sorts of devilments while we are away, and we would probably come home to find that all the maidservants have given in their notice and resigned. He is so droll! To be sure, there was the time William put a toad in his nurse’s bed—he is so very high spirited and thinks up such funny tricks to play—but that was only the once.”
I do not think, either, that Mr. Palmer is quite so disagreeable as I have made him sound on paper. It is only that he is the sort of man who wishes to be thought very high minded and superior—and that he has found himself married to a very silly woman, with whom he has absolutely no chance of ever carrying on an intelligent conversation. But I think he is fond of Charlotte in his way—as I said, it is impossible to really dislike her, she is so very happy and eager to be pleased with the world. He carries her up and down the stairs to spare her hopping with the cane—scowling all the while, but he does do it.
And Charlotte certainly adores him. She has told me at least ten times in the last week that he is exactly the kind of man she likes, and she merely laughs at his every instance of bad temper or surliness.
That was how the conversation at breakfast this morning began. She raised her hand to cover a yawn, and said, “Goodness me, I awoke very early this morning. I am sure the moon had not even yet set. But I woke, and discovered that Mr. Palmer was not in bed with me—so I got up, wondering where he could have gone. Only I could not get downstairs, on account of being unable to find my cane in the dark. But just then, he came into the room, all dressed in his day clothes—boots, hat and all! He said that he had been for a walk! A walk! In the middle of the night! He is so very amusing. And when I asked where he had been walking, he would not say. He is so droll! He never tells me anything.”
Since I had absolutely no interest in Mr. Palmer’s nighttime excursions, I had begun to let my mind wander as Charlotte went on. Which is not terribly polite, but the only means I have found of remaining in her company for more than five minutes and not being tempted to dash out into the turnpike road beyond Delaford’s gates and hurl myself under the wheels of the next passing carriage.
But then my attention was jerked back by Charlotte saying, “I do hope that dear Mrs. Brandon feels better soon. Though to be sure, I do not wonder at her being fatigued this morning as well—she was out even later than Mr. Palmer.”
“Marianne was out? How do you know?”
Mrs. Palmer seemed not to notice the sharpness in my tone—or at least not to mind. Her eyes widened slightly, and she said, “Oh, yes. Did I not say before? Mr. Palmer got into bed and began snoring almost at once. He is so comical—I would have laughed and laughed if I had not been afraid of waking the dear man just when he had fallen asleep! But the noise was too much for me to drop off myself, so I got up and looked out of the window, and I saw Mrs. Brandon just slipping in through the side door in the morning room. Our room overlooks it, you know. And I know it was she—even though she had a dark cloak pulled over her head—because the dawn was just breaking by then and I could see her face quite plainly. I suppose the child must be troubling her and making it hard for her to sleep—or perhaps she suffers from indigestion, poor soul. I had it terribly with William whenever I lay down—I had to keep a store of dry biscuits on my night table and sleep all propped up with pillows! It was the most ridiculous thing.”
Set down here, the story seems rather comical—all mixed up with Mr. Palmer’s snore
s and Charlotte’s indigestion. But at the time, I did not think it at all humorous. I confess to having harboured a slight morbid curiosity to one day attend a funeral with Mrs. Palmer and see whether she could manage to describe that as ‘droll’ as well. But most of my attention was fixed on worrying over what she had told me of Marianne—and wondering whether I ought to speak with her myself? Or speak with Elinor first?
Charlotte’s style of communication seems to be contagious; after setting down everything she said, I am having to restrain myself from peppering my own sentences with underlinings and exclamation marks. But I am troubled. (!)
Though Charlotte could be right, I suppose. Marianne could have simply felt wakeful and in need of fresh air.
Thursday 10 June 1802
I have just realised that I have not fully explained, either, where Marianne’s husband Colonel Brandon has gone.
To begin, Colonel Brandon spent his career in the army and served in the East Indies. He retired his commission so that he might come home and run the Delaford estate when his brother died. But of course he still retains close army friendships and connections.
The recent peace with France means that the Channel and our coastlines are no longer quite so rigorously patrolled by our naval forces. Which in turn has led to an increase in the smuggling of illegal goods in from the Continent.
Before I came to live in Devon, I was aware of the existence of smugglers—but only vaguely. I had no idea of the full extent to which their trade is bound up with the life of the entire community in costal villiages. Not that I can claim to be an expert on the subject. We are relative newcomers to Barton—which is not, in any case, directly on the sea. But even still, we would catch whispers—from servants and shopkeepers—of the free trade.
Goods—tea and spirits, chiefly—are brought across the Channel in incredible quantities, carried inland along carefully established secret routes, and then distributed and sold without the smugglers having to pay any of the heavy taxes due on imported goods. According to Colonel Brandon, the whole operation is more or less an open secret in many small villages and towns—which makes it that much more difficult for revenue agents to apprehend the culprits. Everyone from the butcher to the local publican to the candlemaker is a part of the smuggling gang, and the smuggled goods can be shifted from one house or hiding place to the next, always a step ahead of the revenue men.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 6