Chapter Fourteen #5
Edmund was back at her side just as this new and disconcerting layer of complication took root in Elinor’s mind.
“Come, let us get you to bed. You must take our Aunt Norris’ advice, I think, if you do not feel recovered in the morning.
Marianne has told me you enjoy riding, and suggested you might show me all the most picturesque scenery hereabouts.
Exercise, dear cousin.” He offered her his arm and she fairly clung to him as they quit the room.
She hardly knew what she said or how she acted as they made their way upstairs—when at last she was alone, making her preparations to sleep, she still could not think clearly about anything of any importance, and her mind only dwelt on Edmund having kissed her hand as he left her at her chamber door.
Mary Crawford began to pace the room after Colonel Brandon’s abrupt departure, feeling no little trepidation over the urgency of his reaction to the communication he received.
It had been dreadful to part with him so soon after forming the intense and immediate connection she had felt to him—and yet what elation that he shared her rapidly blossomed sentiments, and that he had come back so soon—he had actually spent nearly the whole day at her side!
She was nearly past her apprehension over how quickly she had come to be attached to him, and his devotion to putting her at ease had even dispelled the fear that had plagued her since parting with him, that he was not past some affection for Marianne.
She could only lament that once again his urgent business, whatever it might be, must once again call him away from her.
The delightful surprise of having his company again so soon had filled her heart with hope that they might really begin a proper courtship.
She recollected herself—how odd her agitation must look, or how transparent.
Mary sank into a sofa, but made no attempt to speak with Fanny Price and Mr. Rushworth nearby.
Now there was an odd pairing! Fanny was reading aloud to her companion, and Mary could not make out all the words, for Fanny was so soft-spoken, but the gentle lull of it numbed Mary into a calmer sort of abstraction.
As was her habit, she sought out where her brother was in the room.
Henry was seated beside Lady Bertram, who was speaking with dear Mrs. Jennings; he was not attending their conversation at all, but appeared to be having a silent one from across the room with Maria.
The two of them had, by all appearances, had a falling out, though Henry had been unusually reticent about it—but now he and Maria were brazenly communicating by looks, gestures, and words mouthed but not spoken aloud.
Mary scarcely knew what to think. She had been wary of Henry pursuing an engaged woman at Mansfield, even urging him to spend some time at Everingham when Sir Thomas returned from Antigua.
She had felt a tremendous joy for Henry when Maria’s engagement was broken, though she rather doubted his constancy—perhaps this was why he had confided no further, for she seemed now to be rather correct.
As much as Mary genuinely liked Maria, when Henry turned his attentions to Fanny Price, Mary did her best. Fanny was sweet and interesting in her own way, and though Mary might have preferred Maria as a sister, she was resolved to be supportive of Henry’s choice.
She wondered now if he had made one at all—what could he be about?
Ere long, Colonel Brandon returned, his countenance stony.
And yet, there was something in his eyes, she detected—something only for her.
He came to her side directly, sitting very close.
“Forgive me my abrupt departure. I had some urgent news—would that John Dashwood had recalled it sooner, for it is too late tonight—but I must go again tomorrow.”
Mary nodded ruefully. “I expected you to say so.”
He smiled sadly. “I hope you understand. I will come back again when I am able—or if you are gone from Norland, I might call on you and your brother in London.”
Mary sighed, glancing in Henry’s direction again.
He perceived her this time, and pasted a smile on his face before crossing the room to speak with Fanny Price.
Mr. Rushworth hastily moved away to speak with Maria, who never took her eyes off Henry.
Really, what is going on? “I hardly know what Henry is about,” she sighed.
“Pardon?”
Mary had not realized she had spoken aloud, and brought her fingers to her lips in embarrassment. “Oh—I am sorry—I only meant—to be honest, I rather worry for him. Perhaps he ought to go back to Everingham again.”
He furrowed his brow. “Has he given you any particular reason to worry?”
“A little, perhaps.” Mary sighed again, and moved a little closer to him.
Her voice low, she basked in the relief of confiding in him.
“Maria Bertram was betrothed to Mr. Rushworth when we met the family at Mansfield last summer. We all had hoped that Henry might form an attachment with Julia, the younger sister, but he preferred Maria, and in time the preference became markedly mutual, though poor Rushworth had not the wit to see it. When her father returned from Antigua last month, the engagement was broken—and I am sure I have given my brother some offense by suggesting the attraction for him lay in the challenge of it—that with the obstacle removed, he may turn fickle. And yet I am sure he has, for since Fanny has come out, he has been so attentive, almost exaggeratedly so. But there is something still passing between him and Maria, I am sure of it. I only hope it will not come to some folly—that he will not bring some scandal on us. Our uncle, the admiral, is rather like that—that is, we were obliged to leave his house when he brought his mistress into it—and I have often begged Henry to take heed, and not follow such a poor example. And now I can only be cross with myself for muddying the waters, for I daresay he will not speak to me of it any further. But I am sure you have great cares of your own—this can be nothing to you.”
“On the contrary,” the colonel said gently. “I am very sorry to see you upset, though it speaks well to your character that you have a care for your brother and your reputation alike. Indeed, I must own to come little curiosity myself—I had noticed on my last visit….”
“Noticed what?”
Colonel Brandon scowled for a moment as he looked about the crowded drawing room. “Perhaps we might return to your instrument? I am sure you could play some idle tune while I speak to you.”
“Yes, of course.” Mary took his arm as he led her to the music room, eager to hear his opinion of the matter.
Once they had seated themselves, and Mary began to strum, the colonel cleared his throat.
“I believe your brother had begun to pay some attentions to Miss Price when last I was at Norland. I could not help but notice her surprise and discomfort, as well as Miss Bertram’s apparent resentment and hostility.
But since I have been here today, I have noticed something more.
Miss Bertram’s behavior varies from one occasion to the next, but I believe it has something to do with her father.
He had dozed off when I quit the room before—he has even this moment woken up, and now Maria is laughing with Rushworth there, where before she looked very cross. ”
“Oh!” Mary reminded herself to continue to strum at her harp, but she watched Maria and Henry with interest. Henry was imploring Marianne to play at the pianoforte, that they might dance, and Maria had leaned in to whisper to Mr. Rushworth in apparent approbation.
“I suppose that would make sense—Sir Thomas must have denied Henry his consent! He must wish Maria to have Rushworth—he is quite three times wealthier than poor Henry—and now Henry has turned to Fanny to forget Maria. But how tragic!” Mary plucked at the chords of her instrument with a sudden anger swelling in her breast—would that Sir Thomas had remained abroad!
Colonel Brandon’s look grew very severe—Mary really did fancy such a brooding attitude, and yet now it made her uneasy. “It is,” he agreed. “I know it all too well.”
But of course he must have a tragic history! It was written in all his morose and mysterious looks, and Mary was fascinated. “Oh?”
He gave a weak smile, and looked away. “Yes. Might I—that is, there may be some parallels, by way of fathers forcing their daughters—might I speak to you of it?”
Mary could see that he was feeling a great and intense agitation, and it touched her heart that he should return her confidence with one of his own.
“Of course I will hear you.” She left off from her harp when Marianne was at last prevailed upon to provide some music; the other young people began to dance together, and Mary drew closer to the colonel once more amidst so much distraction.