Chapter Fourteen
Marianne Dashwood spent the whole morning and much of the afternoon wandering about the grounds of Norland, her heart full of bittersweet sentiment at revisiting all her favorite walks in a moment of such utter misery.
She had done much the same the previous day, and had not slept at all the night before—indeed, she hardly could have faced the world if she had been able to sleep at such a time.
She had made no great secret of her distress at Willoughby’s sudden and perhaps permanent departure.
She cared not a whit that the rest of their party could easily guess her feelings—why should she hide it?
Her feelings were natural, and not without justification—and yet the gentle pity of her companions had irritated her.
Mrs. Jennings, surely, knew little of a heart like Marianne’s, and seemed always on the verge of mentioning Colonel Brandon.
Her cousin Maria had offered some little sympathy, but Marianne could not accept such sentiments from her, when she had clearly spurned her own lover, and was now giving consequence to Cousin James’ inanity.
Even Mary Crawford, whose friendship had seemed so promising, could hardly be a reliable confidante now, for Marianne had seen how Mary got on with the colonel, who had perversely returned that morning, and she felt all the betrayal of her new friend’s interest in the man Marianne held responsible for her present woes.
She really wanted Elinor, but Marianne felt some hesitation at burdening what she suspected was an already troubled mind.
Poor Elinor! She had been just as ill-used as Marianne, for they had been at Norland for a week, and still Edward did not come.
Their sister-in-law Fanny was surely keeping him away, Marianne was certain of it, for Fanny had been vastly unpleasant to them.
She made a great show of concern, at times, and yet was often giving the Dashwoods the most evil looks when she thought nobody was observing her—it was all she could do to hold her tongue about it.
Marianne tried to push Fanny Dashwood from her mind, for she could scarcely enjoy the beauty of Norland Park with such reminders of its new mistress, and yet there was much beauty to be enjoyed.
What felicity, what sorrow she had often felt in the manicured gardens, the wilderness of the parklands, in the meadow and along the stream!
Here she had grown up, had walked and felt and wept when she had lost her father, and again she wandered her frequent and beloved haunts with grief in her heart.
The indulgence of it was comforting and familiar, for even in her wretchedness Marianne felt a sense of being truly at home.
How clearly she remembered walking hand in hand with her father over every treasured place, and what pleasure she had taken in mirroring such tenderness in showing Willoughby every remarkable little spot—and now he was gone away!
Her meandering circuit of the grounds filled her with wistful memories of her youth, mingled with many melancholy imaginings of how she might have walked with Willoughby there, and held his hand… .
Though she had come to fear such mischief since the colonel had come amongst them, Marianne was not prepared to face the crisis so soon.
Her affections were so deeply engaged that she had foolishly hoped the strength of her regard would somehow protect them, that fate might reward their love with some mercy. What a fool she had been!
Now Willoughby must face his aunt, and Colonel Brandon’s terrible severity.
It had all happened so quickly! She could only think of how miserably she had wasted the last week, mixing in so much company, for if she had known they were to have only a week together, every waking hour might have been for Willoughby alone.
She could not expect to see him again—his parting words were vague and troubled, and he had said nothing of coming back again.
She had not been able to account for why he should be so abrupt with her, after having already disclosed the whole terrible truth.
She could only surmise that whatever his aunt had written was the end of all hope, and he was just as pained as she.
Marianne gave way to a spell of weeping.
Her breath came heavy as she ascended a steep hill, tears streaming down her face.
At the crest of the hill she could go no further, and sat down on the grass, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed at length.
She stayed in such an attitude for some time, and drew her shawl about her shoulders as a chilly breeze swept over her.
She was interrupted by the sound of hooves, and a man calling out to his horse. Her head snapped up, and she saw the rider ten yards distant—it was her cousin Edmund. He was slowly coming toward her, and she wiped at her face.
“Cousin Marianne! I am sent by your mother to find you.”
“I am here.”
“Yes, yes I see that.” Edmund smiled wearily at her. “Are you well? You are not injured?”
“No, I am not—that is, I am neither injured nor well.”
By now he had dismounted and led his horse toward her. “You have been gone most of the day—I think I can guess why.” He extended his hand to her, and helped her to her feet. “I believe your mother and sister are wishing to be of use in comforting you. Mustn’t deprive them.”
Marianne chuckled as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “I am sure they always have an ample supply of my feelings. They have been rather downcast themselves.”
“Yes, I think Norland has not been kind to the Dashwood ladies,” Edmund observed.
“And yet I love it so,” Marianne sighed. “You have not been very happy here, I think.”
In truth, Marianne rather admired Edmund’s style of brooding.
He expressed himself well when he did speak, with great feeling, and his silences were nearly as interesting.
She could not think but with awe at his catching Elinor when she swooned and carrying her up the stairs in his shirtsleeves like a proper hero, and then sitting at Elinor’s side and reading to her as she recovered.
They had been walking together in the rain before—how utterly romantic!
Though Marianne did not approve of second attachments as a general rule, she began to think it a fine thing for Elinor.
Let Edward stay away, for here was Edmund!
She smiled at the thought of it—though she herself was sure to end an old maid, there may yet be some hope for Elinor, and she was resolved to make it so.
She had no wish to return to the house, for Colonel Brandon had come back again that morning, and Mary’s delight in his company would vex Marianne greatly.
But to be of use would really be something!
“Shall you walk with me back to the house? I am well enough now, I think, to appear before all my relations.”
“I am glad to hear it. Yes, I believe I have given my horse enough rigorous exercise that we might keep apace with you for the walk back.” He patted his mare and offered Marianne his arm.
“Elinor loves to ride, though I do not much care for it.”
“Yes, she mentioned that.”
“Did she? Well, perhaps next time you ride you shall have an agreeable companion, and I am sure she could show you all the best views of the park.”
Thus Marianne applied herself to her new mission as she walked back to the house with her cousin. Though she was not past a tremendous degree of remorse at parting with Willoughby, she was sure she might pass a few hours devoted to leading her dear sister to a happier end.
John Dashwood shifted in his seat, the walls of his study feeling terribly close. Across from him, Prudence Rushworth wore a malicious grin. “On behalf of my niece and her eldest daughter, I am afraid I must reject your offer, sir.”
“Come now, ten thousand pounds is more than generous.”
“Is that so? I am sure none of the girls could marry on less than twice such a sum—and they are entitled to far more, after all. Everything, in fact.” She gestured broadly.
John tugged at his cravat. “It is two years’ income for me! It should take me until Harry is fully grown to give them twenty apiece, and that is if I do not spend a shilling myself!”
Mrs. Rushworth laughed. “Good Heavens, I am not asking you to give them anything—particularly when it is not yours to give. My attorneys will see to that. You are the one who wished to undertake this feeble and pointless exercise in negotiation, and you have said nothing that can bend me from my current course of action, young man.”
“Now see here! My attorneys are working assiduously to refute your scandalous and wholly unfounded slander!”
“Unfounded, indeed! I wonder you do not stand your ground, then. Surely if it was a falsehood, you should have no reason to make any offers at all, even such paltry insults as you have done. No, I know you are frightened, boy. And why should you not be? But I can feel little concern for that when I think of how my niece and her poor daughters have been treated—how they have suffered!”
“Two thousand a year, then. No, two thousand five hundred—fully half of everything, you know. Such a generous allowance might keep them comfortable in town, with servants and a carriage—they might entertain, wear the latest fashions….”
The wicked harpy laughed again, annunciating her reply with a twist of a dagger in his heart at every syllable. “Everything.”
“You know that is impossible! I will fight this, I swear it. I have a son to think of—and my poor wife is nearly driven mad from the fright of what might become of us!” John shuddered at the thought of it.
When he had parted with Fanny after breakfast, she looked very ill indeed, as if she had accidentally swallowed another sleeping draft.
She had clutched his sleeve, observing that she heard a great many overpowering whispers about her.
“I must fight for my family,” he thundered.