part0014

Elizabeth laughed mildly. That was, word for word, exactly what her mother said less than ten days ago – which was no surprise, given the number of times the subject must have been canvassed between Mrs Bennet and her dearest friend. All that Elizabeth could do was give the same reply to both.

“Let me assure you once again, Ma’am, that I never had any designs of the sort on the Colonel.”

“Be that as it may, you could have had him. Now it appears that his inclination lies elsewhere.”

Elizabeth shook her head, reluctant to repeat to Mrs Jennings that theirs was merely a communion of minds, and that the Colonel had never been romantically disposed towards her any more than she towards him. Having recognised the futility of the endeavour, Elizabeth kept her own counsel and turned to look with a fond smile at her two friends. Mrs Jennings could well sing her triumph now and congratulate herself on her powers of perception as, for once, she had stumbled upon the truth in her perpetual quest for attachments between the people of her acquaintance.

Unlike Mrs Jennings, Mrs Bennet had no reason to find any personal satisfaction in the matter, and was therefore very vocal in her displeasure. Elizabeth had to listen many times to her bemoaning the fact that a daughter of hers could by now be well on her way to becoming the mistress of Delaford, and no assurances from Elizabeth that the Colonel had never harboured any intentions of matrimony towards herself could bring about a much-desired end to the discussion .

“This is neither here nor there!” her mother had exclaimed on one of those occasions. “Gentlemen hardly ever know their minds in cases such as these. All they need is encouragement in the right direction. But you cannot possibly mean that, Lizzy! Everybody saw his attentions to you. Why, Mrs Jennings was prepared to wager he would propose before Easter. Now what are we to do? With the Colonel snatched by that artful girl, there is no one left for you to set your cap at. The Todd boy simply will not do, he is but nineteen years of age and a far better match for one of your sisters.”

“Mamma! Pray let me assure you I have never ‘set my cap’ at the Colonel,” Elizabeth laughed, embarrassed by her mother’s mistaken notions. “As for his attentions to me, pray believe me, Ma’am, they were not a mark of courtship. Unlike most of our neighbours, I just happened to like the same books as the Colonel, so we enjoyed talking about them. That is all there was to it,” she concluded, attempting to keep matters simple, for her mother’s benefit.

But Mrs Bennet patted her hand.

“There, now, Lizzy. You need not keep up the pretence for me. You have your pride, to be sure, and ‘tis in your nature to make light of a bad business, I know that. But you should not tease so. I do not blame you, for I know you would have got him if you could, but did I not tell you, child, that you should make haste and secure him, lest another takes his fancy? A little more encouragement from you would have done the trick. I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of you getting him now. Well! Just as he chooses. He is a shallow, undeserving man, and at his age he should have known better than to allow himself to be swayed to and fro in this fashion. I hope she makes him miserable, odious girl that she is, with her simpering nonsense about poems and whatnot, and her arts and allurements. Serves him right, too! I will always say he used you abominably ill, and if I were you, I would not have put up with it.”

Elizabeth’s efforts to reassure her mother were for naught. Likewise, her earnest endeavours to attenuate Mrs Bennet’s profound dislike of Marianne – and above all, the harsh and unjust comments. Her sole recourse was to avoid the topic. But that only served to make Mrs Bennet turn to Kitty and Lydia instead. Elizabeth had lost count of the number of times she could hear her mother’s loud and plaintive voice carrying from another part of the house, with variations on the theme .

“Well, girls, what say you now of this sad business of Lizzy’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it to anybody. I told Mrs Jennings so the other day. I never would have thought it of the Colonel, though. He used to be so obliging and agreeable! Not one to talk much, but what does that signify? Your dear father, bless his departed soul, never used to talk to me a vast deal, and yet we had as good a life together as any. And look at him go now! The Colonel I mean, of course, not your father, God rest his soul. Look at him go, led by the nose like I know not what! I blame it on those Dashwoods, you know. Very artful people! Aye, aye, they are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of anyone, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly to think of it, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. Delaford would have suited very well indeed. I have but one comfort now, that should any of you not marry, there will always be a roof over your heads at Farringdon or Netherfield. Not that this should be of any concern to you, Lydia, my sweet, for I am convinced you will make a splendid match. Our connection with dear Bingley will throw you in the path of other rich men. And with any luck, someone will soon offer for you too, Kitty. But mark my words, I fear our Lizzy will find herself an old maid before we know it, like that poor Charlotte Lucas, for I am sure I do not know how she might get a husband now.”

Elizabeth could do nothing but shake her head at such speeches, saddened by her mother’s insensitivity, but also mildly diverted by the most uncommon fashion in which Mrs Bennet chose to express her maternal sentiments.

“No one listens to me,” she would then declare, as countless times before. “Nobody can tell how I suffer to see my daughter’s rightful place usurped by some newcomer. But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”

Thankfully, Mrs Bennet was sufficiently aware of their interest, as recent additions to a community under the Middletons’ patronage, to grudgingly refrain from venting all her frustrations to Sir John, but much to Elizabeth’s chagrin, her opinions were freely and frequently expressed to Mrs Jennings. As for the family at Barton Cottage, she could hardly ever speak of any of them without being uncivil, and Elizabeth knew that many months would pass until she could even begin to forgive Mrs Dashwood’s second daughter .

Despite her own extreme mortification, Elizabeth could only hope that as time wore on, Mrs Bennet would eventually reconcile herself to the situation. As for herself, all she could do was show that she was nothing but delighted with the way the Colonel and Marianne’s acquaintance was progressing.

To her great pleasure, Elizabeth soon found that, as their close friend, she could be of use to both, by lending a sympathetic ear to what they were not prepared to disclose to each other as yet. The Colonel was the first to share confidences, shortly after his visit at Barton Cottage on the day when Marianne had sprained her ankle. While the others were amusing themselves on his bowling green, he offered Elizabeth his arm for a turn about the garden, and unexpectedly began:

“Miss Marianne seems to have a great fondness for Shakespeare.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth concurred, and for a while they were silent, until Brandon very quietly resumed:

“I once knew a lady who greatly resembled your friend in temperament and manner. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of spirit… I must beg leave to apologise for my intrusion in Miss Marianne’s reading the other day. It was— That particular quote was a great favourite of hers. And hearing it read so vibrantly by Miss Marianne was… deeply unsettling.”

Elizabeth made no answer, as none was required, and they continued their walk in silence. Even before that conversation, she had good reason to suspect, before anybody else did, that the Colonel harboured a partiality for Marianne. As time wore on, it became more and more obvious that it was indeed so – a partiality which, to Elizabeth’s astonishment, Marianne eventually appeared to return.

Having perceived the Colonel’s sentiments, Elizabeth had been concerned for him at first, not only because of the striking differences in their temperaments, but mainly because she was aware, from former remarks dropped casually by Marianne, that she considered Brandon old enough to be her father, and certainly past the time in life when he could be animated by love, or contemplating matrimony. However, to her great surprise and mild amusement, it emerged from Marianne’s subsequent confidences that the incident earlier in May had given him an aura of a romantic hero, which had raised her interest enough to make her wish to learn more about the man behind the façade of cheerless reserve .

Seemingly, her sprained ankle was a blessing in disguise, for it gave them ample opportunity to further their acquaintance, and afforded the Colonel the excuse he needed to call at Barton Cottage much more frequently than he might have felt he could. Their encounters were marked at first by shyness and constraint, but repetition brought familiarity, and familiarity bred not contempt, but confidence and comfort.

Their attachment had begun with youthfully romantic notions on Marianne’s part, but an increasing intimacy with Brandon gave it a sounder basis of admiration, respect and understanding. As for the Colonel, once his subdued manner was altered by his acquaintance with Elizabeth and greatly brightened by the joy of seeing his interest in Marianne returned, he became less taciturn and less reserved. Glimpses of his younger self resurfaced – from a time before unrelenting anguish had oppressed his spirits and broken his heart. After a while, the truncated confidence shared with Elizabeth was fully disclosed to Marianne, and the melancholy account of a disastrous love only served to heighten her interest in the Colonel, strengthen the belief that still waters ran deep, and overturn her deeply-held conviction that guarded natures were incapable of passion. No formal announcement was made and none was yet expected, but in this instance Mrs Jennings’ wit could flow long, for the pair who inspired it had indeed grown attached, and there was every reason to believe they would be very happy.

“I do wish he would propose soon,” Mrs Jennings suddenly said, startling Elizabeth from her reverie.

“Why is that, Ma’am?” she asked, amused.

“Because I was hoping to see it happen before I return to town. I was planning to leave shortly, and I would rather not miss the grand finale.”

“For your sake and theirs, Ma’am, I hope the Colonel will oblige. Would you like me to drop him a hint to that purpose?” Elizabeth asked archly.

Mrs Jennings laughed heartily, assured Elizabeth that she would not put it past her to do just that, suggested it might not be such a bad thing, then added:

“I cannot imagine why I have not thought of this before. You should come to town with me, and your mother and sisters, too,” she said with great energy, then insisted, “Your mother, I am sure, will like it above all things. I know London will be quite thin, for people of fashion shun it at this time of year, but what is that to us?”

Once she had overcome her initial surprise at the impulsive suggestion, Elizabeth thought better of it, and the notion became more and more attractive. She could see the Gardiners again and, oh joy, maybe even Jane!

“We can travel in the barouche box, as none of you are very large. I can send my maid by the coach, and what a merry journey we shall have! I must speak to your mother and settle it to my satisfaction, for I have set my heart on it now. You will stay in Portman Square, of course. I shall brook no opposition. The more the merrier, that is what I always say. Goodness me, you would be doing me a favour, for I cannot endure poking about that great big house all by myself. Come, Miss Elizabeth, let us strike hands upon the bargain. Between the two of us, we must be able to persuade your mother and sisters.”

They would hardly require much persuasion, Elizabeth knew full well and, with a smile, she assured Mrs Jennings of her support.

Before too long, both of the good lady’s wishes were fulfilled. The planned visit to town had only to be mentioned to Mrs Bennet for her to accept the invitation with alacrity and very vocal satisfaction. As to the Colonel, even without the benefit of a hint, that very same evening he proposed and was accepted.

Their friends greeted the announcement with the customary good wishes, of which only Mrs Bennet’s were tight-lipped and insincere, but Elizabeth dearly hoped the trip to town might help her mother forget her vexation at an engagement that would not benefit her family in any way.

To London they were therefore to go, within a fortnight. Letters to relations in town and Hertfordshire were written and dispatched, and they eagerly launched into feverish preparations. But just a few days later, a new development came to alter their travel arrangements.

Sir John had long planned an outing – a party of pleasure in the beautiful grounds of Whitwell, an estate belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon’s. By ten o’clock on the appointed day, Sir John, his lady and their guests were all assembled at Barton Park, where they were to breakfast together before setting off. The weather was favourable, and they were in high spirits and good humour, eager to be gone. While they were at breakfast, the letters were brought in. Among the rest, there was one for the Colonel. He took it, looked at the direction, changed colour and immediately left the room.

“What is the matter with Colonel Brandon?” asked Mrs Bennet. “He is certainly not himself these days,” she added ill-humouredly, with a dark glance at Marianne.

“I hope he has had no bad tidings,” said Lady Middleton. “It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my table so suddenly.”

In about five minutes he returned.

“No bad news, Colonel, I trust,” Mrs Jennings said as soon as he came in.

“None at all, Ma’am, I thank you.”

“Was it from his lordship? I hope ‘tis not to say that your sister is worse.”

“No, Ma’am. It came from town, and is only a letter of business.”

“But how came the hand to discompose you so, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this will not do, Colonel. Let us hear the truth of it.”

“My dear Madam, pray recollect what it is that you are saying!”

“Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?” persevered Mrs Jennings, paying no heed to her daughter’s reproof.

“No, indeed, it is not.”

“Well then, I know who it is from, Sir, and I hope she is well.”

“Whom do you mean, Ma’am?” said he, and his countenance darkened, thus strengthening Mrs Jennings belief that she had hit upon the mark, and perhaps the lady in question was not well.

“You know who I mean. Has she been taken ill, the poor dear?”

“I am dreadfully sorry, Ma’am,” said Brandon, addressing Lady Middleton at first, but then turning towards Marianne as he spoke, “that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town.”

“In town!” cried Mrs Bennet, expressing everyone’s surprise.

“My own loss is great,” he added, his eyes still on Marianne, “in having to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain you admittance to Whitwell.”

“But we must go!” cried Lydia. “It shall not be put off, when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Colonel, that is all. ”

“I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day.”

“We understand, Colonel, and we wish you Godspeed,” intervened Elizabeth, mortified on her friend’s behalf, as well as her sister’s.

“There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, that I know of old,” Sir John said, “but I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mrs Bennet and her daughters, all the way from Farringdon Lodge…”

Colonel Brandon again expressed his regret at being the cause of their disappointment, and before the others could add anything further, Marianne stood and went to him.

“I imagine we shall be able to bear it with tolerable composure,” she said towards the assembled party, unconcealed censure in her voice. To Elizabeth’s chagrin, Mrs Bennet humphed audibly, but Marianne took no notice. “Pray allow me to see you out,” she said to Brandon with a sweetness meant to soothe the irritation caused by the interference of others.

“Aye, do, Miss Marianne,” cried Mrs Jennings, “and then perhaps you might find out what his business is.”

Marianne’s eyes flashed dangerously, but the Colonel laid a hand on her arm and gave her a warm smile. Then, with unperturbed composure, he bid his adieus and left the room with his betrothed.

“I wish I could tell you, dearest, how distraught I am to leave you at a time like this,” he said earnestly, taking both her hands in his, once they were assured of some privacy.

“Pray, think nothing of it,” she replied with energy. “’Tis you I am concerned about. You do not look well.”

“I shall be well, do not make yourself uneasy on my account. I am distraught at not knowing how long I shall have to be gone. Pray, let us sit. I must tell you what this is about.”

“There is no call for that,” she said, clasping his hands. “If you have to leave in such haste, there must be a very good reason for it, and there is no more that I need to know.”

“God bless you for this, my love,” Brandon said softly, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Nonetheless, I would be easier if you knew.”

Marianne could not disagree with the sentiment, so they sat, still holding hands. A long and painful tale followed, haltingly told and heard without interruption; a continuation of the confession begun at Barton Cottage – the sad story of the daughter of an unfortunate mother, both entitled in their different ways to special places in his heart.

“And the man, the perpetrator of this?” Marianne asked as soon as she could speak, tears in her eyes. “Do you know his name?”

“Oh, aye,” Brandon said darkly. “Poor, wretched Eliza confessed everything to me in her letter. The scoundrel is well known to me and the people here at the Park.” He sighed and resumed. “Much as it pains me to see the poor girl’s misfortune becoming public knowledge, I cannot protect her at the expense of other ladies of my acquaintance – and particularly yours. He must be exposed for what he is. John Willoughby of Allenham cannot be allowed to show his face in polite society. Not in this part of the country, at least.”

“I am distraught to think of you weathering this alone,” Marianne said quietly, stroking his hand. Suddenly, a new notion came to her, and her eyes brightened. “I will follow you to town, as soon as it can be arranged. But of course! Mrs Jennings will not object to another addition to her party.”

“Marianne, you cannot!” he eagerly protested. “I will not have you touched by this. ‘Tis not fitting—!”

“’Tis fitting to be close to you,” she tenderly admonished. “You will be much engaged, and I expect no less, but when you have had your fill of it, you could visit me at Mrs Jennings’ – if you can bear it,” she amended, only half in jest, “and we could speak of other things, for a few hours at least.”

Brandon brought her hand to his lips again, her concern for his welfare warming his heart, yet he knew he could not give in, much as he wished to. He made to speak, but all of a sudden Marianne turned deathly pale, and she cut him off with a horrified whisper:

“You do not contemplate—? Surely you do not intend to go in search of Mr Willoughby!”

To this Brandon replied gravely, his eyes never quitting hers.

She drew a sharp intake of breath and, tightening her grip around his fingers, she was about to try to dissuade him from this dreadful plan that filled her with terror. Yet, even then, she saw the futility of it. To a man and a soldier, demanding satisfaction on the field of honour was imperative, and she would not prevail .

“Marianne, I cannot allow you—” he began, but she put her fingers to his lips.

“I shan’t be dissuaded. You will do what you must, and so will I.”

In the face of her gentleness and obvious devotion, Brandon abandoned the thankless task of playing the devil’s advocate, and with words that could scarce do justice to his depth of feeling, he finally brought himself to take his leave.

For her part, as soon as she had dried her tears, Marianne returned to the drawing room. The first voice she heard was Mrs Jennings’:

“… she is a relation of the Colonel’s, my dear, a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies.” Then, lowering her voice by just a fraction, she said to Mrs Bennet, “She is his natural daughter.”

Expressions of surprise burst from many quarters, but the lady paid them no heed, for she had noticed Marianne’s entrance.

“Ah,” she exclaimed. “Here comes Miss Marianne. What can you tell us, my dear?”

“So he did have to go to town on account of Miss Williams,” Mrs Jennings cried, untouched by Marianne’s words. “And he would not say that she was taken ill, so it must be the only other reason that young girls find themselves in need of assistance for,” she added, nodding knowingly.

“Whatever do you mean, Ma’am?” Lydia asked.

Mrs Bennet tutted, but Mrs Jennings continued, unperturbed:

“Young men. Troublesome young men. This reminds me of a truly sad story that came to my attention a few days ago, when I received a letter from a distant cousin. Miss Steele is her name, Miss Anne Steele. She wrote to me of her younger sister, Lucy—”

“Surely, Ma’am, this cannot be of any interest to anyone save the Miss Steeles,” Lady Middleton hastily intervened, in something akin to panic. “Those unconnected to the family must be—”

“Tut-tut, dear.” Her mother blithely waved her objections aside. “Do you not think these young ladies might benefit from learning what they should guard themselves against? I believe they would. Well! Let me start from the beginning. Our cousin Lucy made herself agreeable to Lady Ainsfield, a woman of great fortune and high fashion, and she was invited to travel to Brighton with her as her companion—”

“Brighton…” Lydia sighed dreamily, clasping her hands together. “How I long to go to Brighton!”

“I am sure you will, dearie, and what a grand sight you will see,” Mrs Jennings replied. “But you would do well to keep your wits about you – unlike our Lucy.”

“What shall we do today, now that the Whitwell scheme has come to naught?” Lady Middleton intervened yet again, but her second attempt was as unsuccessful as the first, for her mother would not be deterred from telling her story.

“Oh, we can think of something. Now, to return to Lucy. That girl always had a knack of showing herself to advantage. She used her connection with Lady Ainsfield, and persuaded a number of people that she was a young lady of great fortune herself.”

“Oh, how clever! Pray, how did she do that?” Lydia eagerly asked.

“I have not the slightest notion, but I daresay it served her very ill. For you see, amongst her new acquaintance there was this young man – I shan’t call him a gentleman, now – of whom she thought very highly indeed. He had the most charming manners, the most appealing address, and seemed to be in possession of a good fortune. Long story short, our Lucy was persuaded to elope with him—”

“Aye, Miss Carey. And in doing so, she set aside a longstanding engagement with a most honourable young man, whom she had encountered years ago in her uncle’s house. Their engagement was of a peculiar kind. They had agreed to keep it a closely guarded secret until her intended came into his inheritance, for fear that his relations would strongly disapprove. And then Lucy saw fit to jilt the poor fellow, all for the sake of Mr Wickham, who was soon shown to be nothing but a mean deceiver, without so much as a brass farthing to his name. And would you believe it, the rogue vanished without trace, and heartlessly abandoned her in town right after the wedding, when he discovered that she was not an heiress after all.”

Elizabeth was barely listening to Mrs Jennings’ story, just as she had paid no heed to her gossip in the past, but at the mention of Mr Wickham’s name, her attention was suddenly piqued .

“What became of your cousin, Ma’am?” she asked despite herself.

“She wrote to her sister, who in turn wrote to me, begging for assistance. I did everything I could for the poor girl, but what a wretched business! She is returned to Longstaple to her uncle’s house, for he was persuaded to receive her, and is now hoping for an annulment. Her chances with her young man are of course completely lost. Perhaps the sad affair might have been hushed up, but she went and cut her nose to spite her face, the foolish girl!”

“She was graceless enough, I am sorry to say, to want to go off with a flourish of malice against her former beau, who had kept her waiting for so long, so she announced her marriage. She put a notice in the paper.”

Elizabeth was not the only one whose interest was piqued. Lydia exclaimed loudly that it could not be the Mr Wickham they knew, that he could not be married, and declared her intention to write to her acquaintances in Meryton, so that they could confirm that the story did not pertain to the same man. For her part, Elizabeth had no doubt that it did. While still in Hertfordshire, she was told that the regiment would encamp in Brighton, and did not imagine the bathing-place could have hosted two Wickhams as false-hearted as the one she once had the displeasure to meet.

As for Marianne, she decided to approach Mrs Jennings on the subject of London at a better time. Yet her little conundrum found an easier resolution than she had expected. There was no need to ask any favours of Mrs Jennings, as the good lady herself came to speak to her later that day. She said that, to her way of thinking, young lovers should not be parted so soon after reaching their understanding, and warmly invited Marianne and Elinor to share her hospitality in town. Heartily ashamed of herself for her disdainful intolerance of the older woman and her ways, Marianne gratefully accepted. Thus, to town they were to go, with but a minor alteration in Mrs Jennings’ travelling arrangements – for, with the best will in the world, they could not all squeeze into her barouche box.