During the entire journey, Marianne had alternately wept and sighed and occasionally whispered questions about the time or the weather, as she clung to her sister’s hand. Matters that had not impinged upon her conscience before, pressed hard upon it now. Her demeanour reflected her pain as she struggled to cope with the deep sense of guilt that had afflicted her on learning that her husband had been injured while riding through the night to return to her. She had criticised him for going to the aid of Eliza Williams; yet she could now see that he, at least, had stood ready to help the woman and her child, whose dire plight was the direct consequence of Willoughby’s misconduct. He was culpable, not Colonel Brandon, yet he had done nothing to alleviate their suffering, never accepting responsibility for his actions nor admitting the guilt of his callous abandonment of a defenceless young girl.
And while Colonel Brandon had been engaged in perfectly legitimate business in Ireland, attending to a family estate, Marianne had blamed him for leaving her alone and bored at Delaford, and in that state of aggravation, she had been willing to trust Willoughby again, despite all that had gone before. Marianne, who twenty-four hours ago had been angry and resentful against Miss Williams, began to see her own behaviour for what it was: self-centred and lacking in compassion. It was a selfishness that Willoughby, for his own reasons, had been quick to encourage. Marianne could see it now; she was mortified and knew not how she would face her family, especially Elinor. How would she reveal what had happened in the past few weeks?
However, at the moment that did not signify; she wanted only to get to her husband’s side and ensure that he, who had devoted himself to her when she had been in extremis, knew that she cared. Elinor, well aware that her sister was distressed, asked no questions, content to wait, knowing Marianne would come to her when she was ready.
***
Mrs Dashwood heard the horses’ hooves and carriage wheels crunch the gravel drive and flew to the door. The travellers alighted, weary and anxious, and Marianne fell into her mother’s arms, in tears, wanting to be assured of Colonel Brandon’s condition. As Edward and Elinor stood looking on, mother and daughter alternately wept and consoled one another. Marianne wanted to go upstairs at once to see her husband, and Mrs Dashwood took her to him, while the servants bustled around to provide for the comfort of the others, who were badly in need of warmth and refreshment.
In a while, Mrs Dashwood returned to Edward and Elinor, who were drinking hot chocolate and trying to keep warm in front of the fire in the sitting room, and proceeded to give them an account of the extraordinary happenings of the last two days. She began by assuring them that Colonel Brandon had recovered consciousness and was sleeping. Marianne, she said, had wished to sit beside his bed in case he awoke.
“I had no idea that Colonel Brandon was in England, much less that he was in London rescuing Miss Williams and her daughter,” she said. “Imagine my surprise, then, when he arrived with a letter from Sir John, asking if I would have Barton Cottage readied for them to occupy in a few days. Sir John, generous to a fault, as you can see, hopes to give the unfortunate young woman a chance to make a decent life in the country away from the dreadful goings-on in town. I have a notion of finding her some respectable work she can do, while caring for her child—if we can set up something at the cottage, but that will depend on Colonel Brandon’s agreement too…” She was about to get carried away with her usual enthusiasm for her own elaborate plans, but Elinor, eager for news of the colonel’s condition, asked for more details and her mother obliged.
“Well, Dr Richards has been twice already and will return tomorrow; he thinks it is a clean break and the leg should heal well, and the concussion is wearing off, but the colonel will need to be very careful. We have to make quite certain that he is not troubled with all this fuss about Miss Williams, so he can heal and recuperate in peace. I know Sir John will agree; I’ve sent him a message by express, and he is expected home in a day or two. He is bringing with him a surgeon from London to take a look at Colonel Brandon. Meanwhile, he has authorised me to do everything here for the colonel’s care and comfort, including preparing for Marianne to stay with us for as long as is necessary.”
Listening to her, both Elinor and Edward could scarcely credit the confidence with which Mrs Dashwood seemed to have taken control of arrangements at Barton Park. Despite her love of grand designs and a propensity to dream of plans that she could never finance, here she was, talking with great assurance of getting this or that done and going here and there, as though she had been so occupied all her life, when in fact, she had been all too eager to surrender those responsibilities to her housekeeper at Norland or her eldest daughter at Barton Cottage. Elinor marvelled at the transformation in her mother, but had no rational explanation for it.
They remained another day or two at Barton Park to assure themselves that Colonel Brandon was recovering well, during which time Miss Eliza Williams arrived with her daughter, escorted by two servants from Sir John Middleton’s staff. They had travelled post, and reported that the conditions on the roads were very bad indeed. Miss Williams, a young woman whose pretty features were unfortunately tarnished by a petulant expression, was warmly welcomed by Mrs Dashwood and then taken upstairs to see Colonel Brandon, before being pressed to eat and drink. Marianne meanwhile had tactfully retreated to the rooms allotted to Edward and Elinor, where she found her sister at the window seat gazing out at a forbidding sky and wondering aloud if her husband had taken leave of his senses. “Edward insists on tramping around the park in this weather; I cannot convince him that he can catch a nasty cold and a chill will not be far behind,” she complained.
Marianne came to sit beside her and after a few minutes’ silence said, “Oh, Elinor, what am I to do? I have been such a fool; not just silly, but an evil, wicked fool! I don’t know how I can ever face Mama and Colonel Brandon and tell them what I have done.” Her voice trembled and Elinor could see tears in her eyes. She took her hands in hers and asked, “Marianne, what on earth are you talking about? What nonsense is this? What do you mean you have been wicked and evil? There is not a single evil bone in your body!”
Her voice was firm, but Marianne was even more so in her determination to be miserable and confess her transgressions. “Oh, yes there is, and I have already acknowledged it and I shall have to tell Mama and Colonel Brandon about it…” she began, but Elinor would not let her continue in that vein. “Listen, Marianne, whatever it is, this is neither the time nor the place to burden either Mama or Colonel Brandon with more anguish; as you can see they are both under a great deal of strain and, in your poor husband’s case, much physical pain. It would be selfish and uncaring to add to their troubles with your own problems, no matter how important they may seem. If you are uneasy and you must talk to someone, tell me and I promise to listen with sympathy,” at which Marianne exploded, “No, you must not, I do not need any more sympathy; listen if you will and scold me, excoriate and condemn me, but do not sympathise with me anymore. I am convinced now that that was the ruin of me: all of you, Edward, you, dear Elinor, Mama, and Colonel Brandon, you all exuded sympathy and concern for me and let me get away with feeling sorry for myself, at how badly I had been deceived by Willoughby. No one told me how foolish, how naively trusting I had been of a man of whom I, on such short acquaintance, knew nothing at all. No one, not even you, would point out that it was mostly my fault.”
Elinor, even with some knowledge of Marianne’s recent meetings with Willoughby—knowledge she had not shared with her or their mother—could not account for this dramatic rush of contrition. She had to ask, “Marianne, I do not know what it is you speak of. Will you not tell me what this is all about and what Mr Willoughby has to do with it?”
“He has everything to do with it, Elinor; for I have recently met Willoughby with the Percevals and I am so ashamed to admit that I have permitted him to cajole and flatter me into believing him all over again,” she cried. “Oh, E
linor, when you know it all, you will agree that I have been a wicked fool. I have been utterly stupid and wilful; I feel I should be severely punished.”
And so began a recital of all that had happened in the days and weeks leading up to the arrival of the colonel’s letter announcing his early return from Ireland to rescue Miss Williams from her dire situation, arousing Marianne’s indignation and Willoughby’s opportunistic efforts to turn her against her husband, for whom he clearly harboured a deep dislike.
Marianne never did do anything by halves; she did not spare herself, she told it all, from her first chance meeting with him at Glastonbury, in that most romantic of places, to the last desperate encounter with him in which she had, in a fit of pique, confided in Willoughby, allowing him to see she was annoyed with her husband and so vulnerable to the machinations of a man who would like to be revenged upon him.
“Oh, he was as he has been before, solicitous and concerned; inflamed my resentment against Eliza Williams, suggesting she was selfish and pretended he could help me cope with my aggravation; yet all the time, he had in his carriage waiting at the front porch, hidden from view by the closed curtains, a certain woman—his mistress, whom his wife intends to cite in suing for a divorce!” Marianne, seeing the ashen countenance of her sister as the full import of her words sank in, gripped Elinor’s hand and said, “Elinor, how can I ever explain to my husband that I was so stupid as to permit such a thing to happen? No, don’t say I could not have known. I should not have permitted Willoughby to enter the house, much less have his carriage standing at the door; he had no business there and I had no right to let him in after his previous behaviour. I should have known that he was not to be trusted. Maria Perceval told me that she had been wary of him; she thought he was not trustworthy. If she, who is not yet nineteen, could see that, why was I so blind? When Colonel Brandon learns of it, will he ever forgive me, will he ever trust me again?” She was weeping and Elinor held her close.
Elinor could no longer bear the distress in her sister’s voice, which was rising to hysteria. She spoke gently but very firmly, “Marianne, promise me that you will not speak of these matters to Mama or to Colonel Brandon—not now, at any rate. Let me talk to Edward first and we will see how things turn out before we say anything to anyone else.”
Marianne looked astonished. “Do you not think I should tell them? Am I not to confess how wicked and stupid I have been?” she asked, and Elinor shook her head. “Not now; indeed, it may never be necessary to recount it, depending on what happens to Willoughby. If, as you say, he is no longer welcome at the Percevals and comes no more into Dorset, we may not hear of him again. Let us wait and see. As for what you wish to tell your husband, I am sure there are many more important and pleasant subjects you will want to talk about as he recovers. Do you not think so? I would suggest that rather than seek to punish yourself, and in so doing, add to your husband’s grief, you look to the future and let other aggrieved persons deal with Mr Willoughby.”
Marianne looked troubled; her elder sister, whose judgment and sense of rectitude was always so correct, was asking her not to lay bare her guilt and confess her sins! She was unsure if this was wise. But she trusted Elinor as she had not trusted anyone else in her entire life and was ready, this time, to act according to her counsel.
Edward walked into the room and, seeing the two sisters together, smiled and said, “I’ve just been spending some time with Colonel Brandon; he claims he is feeling much better. His head does not ache so badly, and he would like to see Elinor. Why do you two not go to him and keep him company? He is likely to get very bored just lying in bed for days together.” Elinor rose to go immediately, and Marianne said she would go first to the library and select a book or two which she could read to him. “I know his favourites,” she declared as they went out together.
Later that evening, when they were in their own room again, Elinor recounted to her husband most of what Marianne had told her. Edward was surprised and deeply sad for Marianne; but he, like Elinor, felt there was no need at all for Marianne to confess everything to her husband and Mrs Dashwood. Like Elinor, Edward advised caution. “It is better to wait and see what eventuates. Willoughby, pursued by his wife or his mistress or both, may stay away from this part of the country altogether, and we may never encounter him again. It would seem that the Percevals will have nothing more to do with him now that he has been exposed, and if he has no friends here, he will have no excuse to come into Dorset at all.”
Looking approvingly at his wife, he said, “You have advised her well, my love; while she did take a great risk in meeting him, fortunately, no real harm was done. I believe Marianne should say nothing that will increase Brandon’s anxiety. While it may alleviate her feelings of guilt to confess it all to him, it is likely to destroy his trust in her and harm their marriage. It would be far better that they should concentrate their time and effort on things they both can enjoy together. Indeed, to that end, I have advised Brandon to spend as much time here as he needs to recuperate and then take his wife for a good long holiday in Europe in the spring.”
Elinor was delighted. “Marianne would love that; she has never travelled beyond the south of England,” she said.
“Well, Brandon claims he has already promised Marianne that they would travel abroad in the spring, by which time Willoughby will have been quite forgotten,” said Edward confidently.
Elinor had seen the warmth of the colonel’s affection for his wife when they had gone to his room earlier that day and watched Marianne smile when he’d reached for her hand and kissed it as she sat down to read to him. She hoped her sister’s romantic heart, having twice learned its lesson chasing spurious passion, would find satisfaction in the kind of generous affection that a man with Colonel Brandon’s genuinely good heart could give her.
***
They were preparing to leave on the following morning when Sir John Middleton arrived with the surgeon from London. Having greeted them all with great affection, he went directly upstairs to see his friend. He found the colonel sitting up in bed with his wife in attendance and declared that he was mighty pleased to see him in one piece.
After the surgeon had examined the colonel’s injuries and declared that he was clearly on the road to recovery, Sir John said his piece. “You must stay here as long as you need to make a full recovery, Brandon. Indeed, I should like you to spend Christmas, which is almost upon us, at Barton Park, if that is agreeable to you and Marianne. I am sure the children will enjoy it better if there are lots of guests around, seeing it’s their first time without their dear mama; what do you say?” and when Colonel Brandon looked at his wife, he added, “Marianne won’t mind—she’ll have nothing to do but look after your comfort, and she will have her mama here, too. What more could you ask, eh?”
When the couple smiled and said no more, he assumed that they had accepted his invitation, and went directly down to inform Mrs Dashwood of his plan. There was nothing Sir John disliked more than being bored and alone, and nothing pleased him more than having friends and good company around him. Having the Brandons with them at Christmas would be a good start.
Satisfied that matters at Barton Park were settling down well, even as the level of noise rose with the arrival of the master, Edward and Elinor felt able to say their farewells and return to the quiet and peace of their home at the parsonage at Delaford and their two boys, who had missed them very much. Their Christmas would be quieter but no less happy; they were looking forward to Margaret’s arrival very soon.
***
The sleet and rain gave way to snow as Christmas approached, and with it came a little wintry sunshine. Christmas at the parsonage was a traditional one with preparations afoot for a customary family dinner. The goose had been plucked, the ham cooked, and the puddings boiled well in time, and the house was adorned with garlands of holly, while at the church, the choir practised relentlessly for their biggest annual perf
ormance. Edward, who was not particularly musical, had surrendered the choice of hymns and carols to his wife and the verger, who had chosen well; none were too difficult for the choir nor too esoteric for the congregation to sing with the usual degree of enthusiasm.
Into the midst of these preparations, Margaret arrived, laden with presents for them all and plenty of stories about her sojourn in France and the very special delights of Provence. She was welcomed with warm affection by both Edward and Elinor and then hugged again and again by their two sons, John and Harry, for whom she had brought many special treats.
Having left her friends Claire Jones and Nicholas Wilcox to spend Christmas together, Margaret was glad indeed of the familial warmth and kindness that surrounded her in her sister’s home; it took away some of the chill of loneliness she had endured since being back in England, leaving Daniel Brooke behind in France.
In the weeks since her return, she’d written him two letters and received one; they had all crossed in the post, which meant nothing they wrote related to anything they had written to one another before. Her first had been for the most part an expression of thanks for all he had done and the time he had spent helping her learn and love the delights of Provence; her second had been short and simply said how much she missed him and how she hoped to see him again, soon.
When his had arrived a few days later, she had hoped it would be a response, but he had not received hers, so it was a somewhat disconnected series of paragraphs, about one thing and another, of which the line that meant most to her was a sentence at the end recalling with pleasure their journey to the abbey at Le Lac du Sainte Germaine in the mountains. If he remembered it so well, she thought, he must also remember what they had said to each other. It was very small consolation, but it was all she had. He had concluded by wishing her a blessed and peaceful Christmas with her family, and Margaret had read and re-read it and carried it around in her pocket like a talisman.
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