Chapter Thirteen
The afternoon that brought Marianne Dashwood to Sanditon was warm and clear. Elizabeth walked arm in arm with her stepsister to a little tea shop on Grand Avenue, not far from the small townhouse Mrs. Jennings had rented for the summer. Elizabeth was exceedingly curious about the woman Marianne had described in the most superlative terms, but the widow had declared with a wink and unconvincing loquacity that she was too tired from her travels to join them for their outing.
Instead, Elizabeth had the honor of introducing Marianne to Mrs. Bevan, and the three ladies sat down at a small table in the cobblestone courtyard beside the tea shop with their refreshments. Marianne took in their surroundings with her usual effusions for aesthetic beauty. She praised the ivy and wisteria covered buildings that surrounded them on three sides, the fashionable passersby on the avenue, the sea air and the sound of gulls, and the charming glimpse of the sea visible between the freshly painted houses across the thoroughfare.
After complimenting every aspect of their surroundings in such poetic language as must impress even the authoress at the table, Marianne had more of the same for her companions. “I do not enjoy the observation of human folly as Lizzy does; even Mrs. Jennings likes everybody. I had expected to content myself by mournfully walking the beach until my hair and attire are poetically blowsy, or following Lizzy around, shielding her from the inanities of strangers, but what a treat that my favorite novelist should be amongst her circle!”
“It is miraculous I could tempt you to visit without mentioning what I knew would be a delightful surprise,” Elizabeth drawled with a shake of her head.
Mrs. Bevan smiled brightly; of all people, she had more cause than even Elizabeth to relish a new character to study. “There is only one thing that could cause so young and pretty a lady to turn misanthropic – heartbreak.” She sipped at her tea and waited.
Marianne gave a long-suffering sigh. “It has been more than a year, but I confess it does still pain me at times. Not long before Mamma married Mr. Bennet, I met a gentleman, Mr. Willoughby….”
Elizabeth listened with solicitous attention to her stepsister as Marianne recounted what Elizabeth already knew. After months of courting her, even giving the impression he meant to propose, Mr. Willoughby had left town abruptly with no promises to return. After Mrs. Dashwood became the new Mrs. Bennet, Marianne had travelled to London with her sister Elinor, who was concealing considerable heartache of her own. But while Elinor had found her happiness with Mr. Ferrars in the end, Marianne had not been so lucky.
“That night at the ball was the last time I ever saw him; he treated me as a mere acquaintance of no importance at all while Miss Grey sneered at me and made her claim perfectly evident. And then I finally received the letter from him that I thought would explain all – and I suppose it did, though the whole truth utterly crushed me. He returned my letters, the lock of my hair, and severed our acquaintance entirely.”
Mrs. Bevan patted Marianne’s hand. “You poor thing! But you are far too young and lovely to give up on love merely because of one mercenary rake!”
“I did try. I became very ill after Willoughby abandoned me – Elinor and Mamma feared for my life! Colonel Brandon was gallant and attentive, and I was touched by his enduring regard. If I could love with my mind and not my heart, I am sure I could have been happy with him. But what I feel is no more than warm friendships, and for me that is not enough. I require so much!”
“That is eminently sensible,” Mrs. Bevan said. “I have too often heard of young ladies requiring too little in a beau.”
Marianne gave a thoughtful half-smile and sipped her tea. “I suppose every lady you meet must wish to share some tale of romance or heartbreak with you.”
“And I am heartily grateful for it! Even when it does not arouse my instant inspiration as a writer, I do love hearing people’s stories. I often feel an almost impertinent curiosity for every little detail, once I have taken an interest in somebody. Which reminds me….” Mrs. Bevan gave Elizabeth a wide smile, her eyes wide with playful anticipation. “I was promised another riveting tale, Miss Bennet.”
Marianne also wore a look of interest. “Oh?”
“You know of it already – it is about Mr. Penny.”
“Oh! I do not know who I pity more! Either he or his lady must be fearfully odious – probably the latter – and how you have suffered for it!” Marianne brought a hand to her heart in dramatic compassion.
Nibbling at a croissant, Mrs. Bevan leaned forward, ready to be engrossed. Elizabeth surveyed their surroundings to ensure their privacy, and then she began to recount the history of her ill-fated correspondence. Mrs. Bevan and Marianne listened intently, despite the latter having heard it all before. They gave every proper reaction – sympathy for Elizabeth’s self-recrimination after the death of her mother, understanding at how the correspondence had offered her distraction and solace, and wistful sighs as Elizabeth described the tender feelings that had touched her heart as the letters grew in substance and sentiment over time. They marveled and lamented that Elizabeth and her mysterious correspondent had been so well suited, and speculated as to what barrier could prevent such affection from forming between him and Miss Penny.
“My poor, wounded sister,” Marianne sighed. “But there must be some missing piece – if he was such an exceptional man, why did his lady not wish to correspond with him herself?”
“Oh, I could think of a hundred reasons,” Mrs. Bevan declared. “She might have sought a more illustrious match, or perhaps her affections were engaged elsewhere. And perhaps the gentleman was not all that he seemed – he may have had mistresses or gaming debt – or perhaps he was not at all handsome!”
“But to you, he was just what a lover ought to be,” Marianne said to Elizabeth, her brow furrowed with earnest solicitude. “Oh, Lizzy, are we to be wretched together in so lovely a place as this?”
Mrs. Bevan quirked her lips to one side and then the other, as if wrestling with her own discretion. In the end, her penchant for telling tales was insurmountable; she refilled her tea as she addressed Marianne. “I believe your stepsister has found some consolation, though it may yet lead to further heartbreak.”
Marianne gasped. “Surely you do not have a new beau already – it has been but three months! I know you are very like me – when you love, it is forever. Your feelings cannot have been so shallow as to have gone away already. And second attachments are but specters of first love . Surely you must agree, Mrs. Bevan.”
The authoress smiled indulgently. “Many of the characters I pen may be attributed with such sentiments, but I am sure I have been in love half a dozen times! Poor Mr. Bevan did not walk an easy path in our courtship.”
“How romantic,” Marianne exclaimed, before turning her curious gaze on Elizabeth.
“My situation is not at all romantic, I assure you. It is a comedy of increasing chaos, and I am excessively diverted by it all – my heart is in no further danger, though not entirely free from my first love.”
Marianne clasped Elizabeth’s hand in her own. “I knew we were of one mind on such attachments!”
Mrs. Bevan tutted and shook her head. “Forgive me, but I cannot believe either of you. Miss Dashwood, you are full young to say such things; your heart shall be touched again, and likely very soon, for Sanditon is too full of handsome young men for a pretty creature like yourself to sojourn here without forming an attachment. And you, Miss Bennet – you must tell your stepsister all about your unusual courtship, and then see what she has to say about it! I worry a little for your heart, but I can at least agree you will soon be cured of your first infatuation.”
“Tell me about him,” Marianne cried. “Is he lively and gregarious, and entirely devoted to you?”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “No, not at all.”
With her teacup lifted halfway to her lips, Marianne paused and blinked at Elizabeth. “What? But would you not prefer a gentleman very like yourself?”
“He is, I assure you,” Mrs. Bevan interjected. “He is tender-hearted and intelligent, nursing a broken heart of his own, but still determined to remain optimistic. That is very like Miss Bennet.”
“Pray, tell me he is handsome!”
Both Elizabeth and Mrs. Bevan answered Marianne at once. “Yes!”
“Well, so are you, Lizzy, so I must say that I am already quite put out that he is not devoted to you. You deserve the best treatment, and should not accept anything else!”
Elizabeth smiled fondly at her stepsister. “Ours is an unusual arrangement. He was betrothed to his cousin – a haughty creature whom I am sure you shall despise – but she has thrown him over in favor of Sir Sidney Parker, whose vain and idiotic antics I have written of in my letters to you.”
Marianne looked disgusted. “So this supercilious lady believes that imbecile is preferable to your beau? Either she is out of her senses or he is most inferior!”
“He is one of the most superior gentlemen of my acquaintance, second only to Jane’s husband Bingley, who happens to be his dearest friend.”
“Is he similar in disposition to Mr. Bingley?”
“Not in the least,” Elizabeth said with a teasing smile. “He despises dancing, thinks more than he speaks, dotes on his darling sister, and reads a great deal. None of these things could be said of my amiable brother by marriage, whom you shall have the pleasure of meeting in the next few days, Mrs. Bevan. He is my elder sister Jane’s husband.”
While Marianne’s expression remained dubious, Mrs. Bevan wore a look of wicked mirth. “I wonder what your brother-in-law will make of your feigned courtship with his friend. He only pretends to court your stepsister, Miss Dashwood – an arrangement your sister has agreed to with gleeful alacrity. And so she may yet join you amongst the ranks of the woebegone, though his dislike of dancing may yet keep her safe from succumbing to his other charms.”
Marianne was even more aghast than when she had heard of Mr. Darcy’s dislike of dancing. “ Feigned courtship?”
Elizabeth nodded with careful nonchalance. “He believes he can inspire enough envy in his cousin to reconcile and rekindle their erstwhile romance.”
“It is not at all because you both desire an excuse to flirt together,” Mrs. Bevan muttered under her breath.
“I do not like it,” Marianne declared. “Is it not exactly what you did with your letters? And it ended in heartbreak! Why would you do such a thing again?”
“That is just what Charlotte wished to know.”
“And so do I,” Mrs. Bevan said. “Perhaps there is some small part of you that hopes this time it will go right for you?”
“I hope it goes right for him ,” Elizabeth said. “I was rather removed from Mr. Penny and his bride, but this time I can watch it all unfold – happily, I hope.”
Marianne screwed up her face, radiating apprehension. “So you do not believe your heart is in any danger?”
Again Elizabeth shook her head. “My heart is all for Sanditon, and soon yours shall be too, once you have seen more of the place. Then there will be no more talk of heartbreak from either of us, and Mrs. Bevan will have to seek inspiration elsewhere!”
Mrs. Bevan leaned back in her chair, all confidence and subtle mischief. “I still have some lingering curiosity, which you must satisfy before you are quite safe from me! Tell me, why did you not wish Mr. Darcy to know of your letters?”
Elizabeth looked away, taking a long sip of her tea to avoid the mortification that she was sure must show on her countenance. Finally, she forced some semblance of her usual good cheer, convincing herself she was not speaking dishonestly. “I did not speak of it at supper on Saturday because the Knightleys were present, and I just met them. I hoped to pass myself off credibly for as long as possible before my friends and relations expose my nonsensical sensibilities.”
“You spoke of your false courtship with Mr. Darcy in the presence of the Knightleys,” Mrs. Bevan countered.
“But Georgiana had already told them of it, so there was little else I could do. Oh, Marianne, you shall adore Georgiana Darcy. She is about your age, fond of music and books and poetry, and full of exuberant whimsy! I believe I have grown so fond of her because she is very like yourself.”
Mrs. Bevan tutted. “The Knightleys seemed very well pleased with you already. But was it their good opinion, and not Mr. Darcy’s, which prevented you from mentioning this clandestine correspondence? Another time, might you confide in him about it? Surely it would only deepen what you have in common with the gentleman.”
“That is hardly necessary – our arrangement is only to last a fortnight. Beyond that, it is his darling sister whose friendship I wish to retain,” Elizabeth insisted. She would have turned the conversation back to the subject of Georgiana but caught Mrs. Bevan staring over Marianne’s shoulder. Elizabeth looked around and saw Mr. Darcy himself approaching them; she breathed a sigh of relief that he had not arrived a minute or two earlier.
He bowed to the ladies, and Mrs. Bevan beckoned him to join them. Marianne peered at him in wide-eyed wonder; beneath the concealment of the table, she gave Elizabeth’s hand a tight squeeze.
Elizabeth performed the introduction, ignoring Marianne’s apparent awe of the gentleman. “Mr. Darcy, allow me to present my stepsister, Miss Marianne Dashwood. She arrived from London this morning in the company of Mrs. Jennings, who I myself am anxious to meet. I hope your sister is well, sir.” Elizabeth blushed, feeling silly for speaking with such odd formality to Mr. Darcy, and before an audience who had made their sentiments known to her.
“Yes, thank you.” He gave Mrs. Bevan an appreciative nod as she poured him a cup of tea from the fresh pot that was brought to them upon the gentleman’s arrival. “This is a charming little establishment.” Mr. Darcy surveyed their surroundings with careful neutrality, none of the effusions Marianne had given voice to.
“It would seem Miss Bennet knows every secret delight Sanditon has to offer,” Mrs. Bevan replied. “Is it not perfectly charming of her to share them with us?”
Mr. Darcy smiled at Elizabeth as he reached for a lemon tart from the tray in the middle of the table. “Miss Bennet is always the picture of affability, though I entreat you not to suppose I joined you in order to hear whatever secrets she may choose to divulge.” He paused, took a sip of tea, and then fixed his gaze on Elizabeth once more. “Although I recall at supper on Saturday, Miss Bennet promised to tell you some story comparable to the tale of our present bit of mischief. I should be happy to hear of it, if sharing secrets is the order of the day.”
“As inspiring a tale as it was to this authoress, that particular secret must remain between we ladies,” Mrs. Bevan replied, giving Elizabeth a significant look. “Of course, the notion of your wicked little ruse is just the thing to inspire my next novel. It shall be about two people who enter into a fake courtship to win back their lost loves; they remain entirely ignorant of the fact that everybody who knows them is waiting impatiently for them to fall ardently in love with one another, just when it seems all hope is lost.”
Marianne coughed and fixed her eyes on her plate of petit fours, while Mr. Darcy began to adjust the buttons on his waistcoat. Feeling her face burning with mortification at Mrs. Bevan’s unambiguous insinuation, Elizabeth nearly choked on her tea. The saucer clattered as she set it down on the table. “How adept you are at imagining a fictional twist upon such a bare foundation of truth.”
“I must thank you for indulging me. You are a fascinating study in both comedy and tragedy, my dear, though perhaps the real tragedy is indeed the foolishness of certain persons ….” Mrs. Bevan broke off, seeming to realize how fully she had embarrassed her new friends.
Mr. Darcy coughed a little before saying, “I hope my cousin’s foolishness will soon end in enlightenment – I thank you for your discretion, Mrs. Bevan, Miss Dashwood. I would not want word of our little scheme to reach Miss de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth was fairly certain that she was the one Mrs. Bevan had deemed foolish, though she was grateful to Mr. Darcy for misunderstanding the authoress. Determined to overcome the sudden awkwardness, she asked, “Where is Georgiana? I had every hope of introducing her to Marianne this afternoon.”
“Yes, I understand she is as fond of music and reading as I am, which shall be a welcome respite after the vapid vanity and insipid gossip of London,” Marianne said.
Mrs. Bevan grinned. “Miss Dashwood promises to serve as our local misanthrope.”
Mr. Darcy gave a soft chuckle. “A distinction I am perfectly willing to relinquish. I am sure my sister will be delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Dashwood. At present, she and our cousin Richard are taking tea at Sanditon House with Lady Denham and her niece.”
“I know Miss Denham was eager to become better acquainted with your cousin and sister,” Elizabeth said neutrally.
“Yes, and the feeling is mutual – or nearly so. I cried off the engagement, for I find myself far too similar to the young lady to have any success in conversation with her. What is more, Lady Denham is as fearsome as my aunt, and that is no way to spend a sunny and pleasant afternoon.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I cannot argue with you about Lady Denham, though I must disagree with your assessment of yourself, sir. You bear little resemblance to Miss Denham in my estimation. She is an odd creature whom I have tried and failed to befriend. She frequently says aloud what most people merely think and speaks of the maneuvers of society and social behavior as if it is some intricate chess match she wishes to win.”
“And we have never had such candid conversations about social machinations,” he quipped with a slow smile.
“Well, yes, but Miss Denham must have some particular purpose for everything she does – she can never simply enjoy an activity for the sake of itself. Everything must be a stratagem or an accomplishment.”
Marianne scoffed. “I think it is a fine accomplishment to simply do what brings you pleasure – to please oneself without reference to the opinions of others.”
Elizabeth smiled at her friend. “That is easy to say when what pleases you is an accomplishment.”
“We are a table full of accomplished ladies – how fortunate for Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bevan teased.
“And this is where I must pay a compliment or three, I believe,” Mr. Darcy said with a droll expression. “I generally find that the word is applied too liberally, but I will own that I consider myself fortunate to be in the presence of the most accomplished ladies in town, besides my own dear sister.”
“Too liberally?” Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands as she prepared to thoroughly tease him. “Do enlighten us, sir; what brilliant gifts, what genius must a lady possess to deserve the word?”
“Well, what is generally called accomplished is a knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, as well as genteel manners, of course. To this I would add something more substantial, in the improvement of a lady's mind through extensive reading.”
“Ah, you must seek to flatter us if you call us accomplished with such a definition as this,” Mrs. Bevan chided him.
Elizabeth grinned gleefully at her friends. “I can meet at least half of his criteria at most, and I am sure I should be frightened out of my wits if I ever encountered a lady who could do better! You see, Mr. Darcy, when one is a truly accomplished reader, one has time for little else. You shall see the truth in my words when you stand up with me at the assembly on Thursday.”
Mr. Darcy smiled back at her just as wickedly. “We may yet find ourselves speaking of books in a ballroom; if you tread on my toes, I shall spend the rest of the evening reciting for your edification the most odious poetry imaginable.”
Marianne gaped in horror at Elizabeth, while Mrs. Bevan threw back her head and laughed uproariously.
The subject of the ball occupied them for another quarter hour, and then Marianne was obliged to return to Mrs. Jennings, who wished to host Elizabeth and her uncle for dinner that evening. Mrs. Bevan requested an introduction to the widow, whom Marianne had described as an amusing and generous but occasionally vulgar matchmaker and first-rate meddler. The authoress was eager to take the woman’s likeness.
Mr. Darcy expressed a wish to join his sister and cousin at Sanditon House, for their visit must be nearly at an end, and asked if Elizabeth would walk with him before she could offer to accompany her friends in the other direction.
“Certainly, Mr. Darcy. We must be seen promenading together on so fine a day; perhaps Miss de Bourgh will be about town and catch a glimpse of us.”
Elizabeth’s words proved a prophesy, for they had scarcely taken a dozen steps from the tea shop when a shiny red and gold curricle came into view, speeding down the thoroughfare. Sir Sidney was driving the equipage, reigns in one hand and a flask in the other, while Miss de Bourgh and her companion Miss Lovelace clung to each other on the seat, laughing with unfettered glee.
The curricle was moving so quickly that Mr. Darcy was obliged to wrap an arm around Elizabeth’s waist and pull her toward him as he hastened across the street. Elizabeth clung to him as she found her footing, and he did not release her from his embrace until she looked back at the curricle, meeting Miss de Bourgh’s gaze. “At least she had the grace to look mortified!”
Mr. Darcy took a step away from Elizabeth as he watched the curricle fly down the thoroughfare with red-faced fury. “That man is a menace!”
Elizabeth laid a calming hand on his arm. “But once again you have been most gallant in rescuing me. Thank you.”
“Of course. I ought to call him out for endangering you and Anne in such a way! I cannot for the life of me understand what she sees in that drunken coxcomb!”
For her part, Elizabeth could not comprehend what Mr. Darcy saw in Miss de Bourgh. She took his arm as he led her down the avenue toward Sanditon House, which was situated just beyond the eastern end of the village. After a moment of silence, she summoned the courage to ask, albeit rather timidly. “I suppose I ought to be impressed that your affection for her has endured such indignities. Forgive me, but, why?”
Elizabeth feared he would not answer her. He was quiet for a moment, gazing out at the sea as they traversed the open plaza at the end of the row of townhouses. But she had come to understand his expressions a little better, and supposed he must be carefully choosing every word of his response.
“She and I spent little time together before our engagement. It was my aunt’s notion, which I originally resisted, but in the end I agreed to a lengthy engagement – Georgiana and I spent considerable time in Scotland, as you know. During that period, Anne and I began a correspondence; it was a requirement of mine upon entering into the betrothal. I felt it would help acquaint me more intimately with my future bride, and so it did. Though I have seen little of her in the interim, and only in the oppressive presence of our relations, I have come to know and love her through those letters – beyond what I had imagined possible.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat faster. “I know something of the power of love letters.”
Mr. Darcy began to speak, looking very much like he would inquire; to her relief, however, he appeared to reconsider. Instead, he gave a heavy sigh. “I have doubted, at times, since coming to Sanditon, whether Anne is still that charming and insightful woman. I attribute the alteration to Sir Sidney’s influence, of course – and I suppose she must conceal a great deal in the presence of her mother.”
A nagging feeling pricked at Elizabeth’s mind. She recalled Charlotte’s comments when comparing the note Mr. Darcy had penned to the valentine which was, even now, in her pocket. She reached through the folds of her dress and wrapped her fingers around that treasured talisman. And then she inwardly laughed, reminding herself that she had just spent an hour with two of the most fanciful women of her acquaintance. Mr. Darcy was surely not the only gentleman in England capable of writing love letters to an indifferent lady.