Chapter Eighteen
Breakfast was lively at Norland that morning, as it had been in the days that Fanny Dashwood had confined herself to her bedchamber, but today Marianne was especially willing to partake in the good cheer.
She could think of Willoughby’s absence with better equanimity, and though it was not as good as his presence might have been, she was proud to call him her betrothed, if only in secret, and prouder still of how he had committed himself to the colonel’s aid.
Willoughby had given her some promise that he would return for the ball, and while it pleased Marianne to think on the promise such an occasion might hold for them, she remained steadfast in her determination to do what she could for Elinor.
“Sister,” said she, “I understand you are for Amberley this afternoon.”
Elinor smiled over at Edmund before answering. “Yes—though I think we may depart after breakfast—if you do not mind my going, Mamma.”
Their mother stammered, and covered it by sipping at her coffee, her gaze wavering between Edmund and Edward.
Marianne knew that Elinor would never speak her heart to their mother—but Marianne was convinced Edmund the superior man, and she would speak to their mother as soon as she had some opportunity.
“Mamma,” she said, “Of course we can spare her.”
“I do hope so,” Edmund said gaily. “Mr. Ambrose is something of an eccentric, and I think it was an all or nothing sort of invitation.”
“Well, then you had better go,” their mother said, and Marianne smiled to herself. “If Elinor can help convince this odd fellow to put in a good word—but his sister will be present to chaperone?”
“Yes, Mamma,” Elinor replied. “They were very kind, I must say—and though I doubt how much help I shall really be, I would like to go all the same.”
“I do not doubt you,” Edmund replied. “Mr. Ambrose immediately responded to your name—the respect he had for your father, when he was master of Norland, may go a long way to helping me secure the living.”
Marianne perceived the slight, and cast a sly glance in John’s direction, but he remained oblivious to the implication.
Sir Thomas was seated much further down the table, but he had clearly been listening to what was passing, and he addressed his son sternly, without regard for the distance between them.
“What living? What is this about, Edmund?”
Edmund regarded his father with evident restraint; Marianne could not but feel some sympathy for him.
How imposing Sir Thomas was—not at all the affable, indulgent figure one might like to imagine in an uncle, and certainly not an ideal prospective father-in-law for Elinor.
But then, Edward’s relations were rather ghastly, too.
“The living at Amberley,” Edmund said. “You may recall noticing my growing attachment to this part of the country—it is no idle inclination, but one I mean to act upon with alacrity.”
“You might have told me,” Sir Thomas barked at his son.
“I might have,” Edmund replied coolly, and looked away.
“Bravo, Cousin,” Marianne cried at once, certain he must have some other meaning; Elinor had blushed very prettily, and must have felt it, too.
“I must commend your resolution—you have made a decision, and the gentlemanly thing is to see it done at once. Indecisiveness, or any matter of unnecessary delay, when one’s happiness is at stake, is simply unaccountable to me.
If you know what you want, go to it directly. ”
Edmund grinned widely at her, the hint of a wink about his eye. Beside him, Elinor could scarcely look at anybody. “Really, Marianne,” Elinor murmured.
Edmund turned to address Elinor, his voice low and gentle. “You wish to depart after breakfast? We are not wanted until two o’clock.”
“She must be thinking to go round the old ruins,” Marianne interjected. “Amberley is to the east of us, and a half-hour’s ride out of the way will bring you to a beautifully ruined old castle—it is well worth the extra time.”
Elinor looked up to roll her eyes at Marianne, and then looked to Edmund. “She is right—I had thought we might ride for longer than yesterday.”
“That sounds excellent! Shall I bring my sketchbook again, Marianne? Add to our growing collection of dubious distinction?”
“I shall not be satisfied until I have one of Norland,” Marianne cried. “Your drawings and watercolors are good, but nothing less than oils for Norland shall be enough to satisfy me, so you had better brush up.”
Elinor and Edmund both laughed, and Marianne grinned at her mother, who only shook her head with bemusement.
Beyond them, Edward Ferrars was looking deeply uncomfortable, and for a moment Marianne’s heart was softened.
Poor man! Perhaps it was wrong to flaunt it like this—but no, it was his own fault for giving Elinor no assurances. Marianne refused to pity him.
As she watched him, Edward was presented with a letter by the footman. As he lifted his hand to take the letter off the tray, something caught Marianne’s eye—he wore a ring on his little finger, and it looked to have a lock of hair set into it.
“What, receiving correspondence here already?” John nudged Edward with a playful laugh.
“And on your first morning amongst us? Well, I suppose I must give you leave to invite your friends to the ball next week, if they are lamenting the loss of your company already. But you must send the invitation today for it to reach them in time.”
Edward frowned at the letter, and Marianne thought she detected a decidedly female hand in the direction, but Edward hastened to tuck it into his coat pocket.
“It is only the letter you sent me—the messenger must have realized on the road to Plymouth that I was already traveling the opposite direction, and caught me up.”
“Ah, well, if that is the case, you might as well discard it, for it contains nothing we have not spoken of since your arrival,” John said. His eye seemed to twitch, and then his gaze shifted to Elinor, and he forced a little smile.
Marianne was beginning to grow suspicious that some mischief was afoot, and glanced over at her great aunt Prudence, who was watching them all with an impenetrable glare.
This only heightened Marianne’s curiosity.
There was something strange about Edward’s coming, and about John suddenly seeming to encourage a match between Edward and Elinor, something that must have to do with the ring and the letter.
The conversation turned as Marianne considered a wide and colorful array of possibilities, and when she began to attend her companions again, they were speaking of their plans for the day.
Fanny Dashwood had abandoned all pretense of hostessing for them, though Marianne could not repent such an improvement to the overall mood.
Her mother and Mrs. Jennings were to accompany Fanny Price and Lady Bertram to Portsmouth, and the rest of them would be left to their own devices.
Mrs. Norris was offering to take up the post as chaperone, and Cousin Julia was trying to make up a riding party.
“You must join us, Mr. Ferrars,” said Julia. “Your brother says he will spend the day helping your mother and sister with the arrangements for the ball, but I am sure you must favor more robust pursuits.”
“Oh, let us not go riding,” Maria huffed. “I am sure I shall be far too sore after. I only want to sit and read, and be very dull indeed.”
Julia glowered at her sister, and turned her attention back to Edward, and stared expectantly at him. “If you do not wish to ride, perhaps we might explore the gardens.”
“A ride will do very well,” he said. “I had not the chance to explore all that I wished to, on my last visit.”
Marianne began to fear Edward would invite himself and the others along in exploring the ruined castle. “Oh, but you are not dressed for riding, Edward.”
“Well, I am sure I can change, Miss Marianne, and then I shall ask you for some direction, of where we might ride.”
“There are some lovely views to the west of the property,” she said flatly, and spoke no further to him as she finished her repast.
It was not long before the morning meal was quite over, and they all began their business of the day.
Young Margaret was to be left under Marianne’s charge in their mother’s absence; this duty, however, Marianne was instantly tempted to shirk, begging a favor of Mary, who agreed to pass an hour showing Margaret the workings of her harp.
Marianne lingered in the gallery, waiting for Edward to change into his riding clothes.
She had bidden her mother a premature farewell, as she had an opportunity she wished to seize.
When she saw Edward leave his bedchamber and walk off in the opposite direction, she waited another moment, took a deep breath, and then hurried into his room. She closed the door and locked it behind her, and then set to snooping at once.
There was no trace of the ring anywhere on his desk or any of the drawers within; she supposed he must be wearing it still.
She recovered the jacket Edward had worn down to breakfast, and withdrew the note from it.
“Ha,” she breathed, observing that it definitely had been written by a lady.
She broke the seal carefully enough that it might be closed again without his noticing, and began to read the letter at once.
14 November
Longstaple, Plymouth
My dearest Edward,
How silly you shall think me, writing to you even within a few hours of your departure. What agonies I suffer already, and I know I shall only grow more desolate until we meet again.
My sister is lingering over me—she begs me say that she is sorry for being so cross at your departure. Of course she is only sorry to see me so heartsick over you, but I beg you consider the regard my whole family has for you, and an eager wish to see you soon a part of our family.