Chapter Twenty #6
Marianne shook her head, really thinking she had run mad, for nothing at all made any sense to her. But here was her mother coming over now. “Oh, Marianne, my darling girl!” Marianne made room on the sofa just as her mother sank down beside her.
“Mamma, what has happened?”
“Fanny has died, Marianne.”
“Oh.” Marianne sat stunned and silent for a moment. “I never cared for her, but I am very sorry.”
“Oh, my dear girl!” Her mother sniffled and pulled her daughter into an embrace. “I never imagined how horrid it would be, when the truth came out.”
“The truth….” Marianne was obliged to sit in silence a moment longer as she straightened out all that had transpired. “So John is not my brother—he is the son of Uncle Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“And Norland….”
“It should be Elinor’s, but she will not have it.”
Elinor heard her name spoken, and came over to them. “Marianne, you are awake.”
Marianne gave a hollow nod and looked up at her sister.
Their mother was summoned back to the other side of the room by Aunt Prudence, who was scolding Willoughby and Edmund about some sort of provision for their children—but Marianne could make out very little of it.
Elinor took the seat their mother had just vacated, and offered her sister a weak smile.
“I should leave you,” Mary said, and stood to go, but Marianne quietly latched on to Mary’s hand.
“Do stay,” Elinor said. “I owe you my thanks for watching over Marianne—we have had so much to discuss, once the house was emptied out.”
Mary nodded but said nothing; she and Elinor were both offering Marianne such solicitous looks that she was obliged to assure them she was quite well, only tired.
Marianne wished to rally herself, to participate in whatever was passing, though her shock was still too great. “How long have you known, Elinor?”
“Edmund told me of it—the day I swooned in the drawing room.”
Marianne laughed bitterly. “I am glad I am not the only one to be bowled over in surprise. But I think I have been the last to learn the truth.”
“It is curious,” Mary agreed. “I think nearly everyone in our house party was in on the secret, and yet a secret it remained. It is shocking and horrible, and I am very sorry for you both. But I hope I can be useful to you.”
“We have much to think on still,” Elinor said. “I cannot think it right to discuss it all at such a time, with Fanny dead and Miss Steele fighting for her life upstairs.”
Marianne’s eyes went wide—she had forgotten about Miss Steele. “Was she much injured?”
“Fanny snapped her neck in the tumble,” Mary answered, for Elinor had begun to weep, and could not speak.
Mary spoke numbly, more out of exhaustion than lack of feeling.
“She was killed instantly from it. Miss Steele has not been so fortunate—that is, she suffers a great deal from broken ribs and other bruising. Daniel said the doctor is with her still, but it is not likely she will survive until the morning.” Mary offered Elinor her handkerchief, and Edmund looked up from the heated debate across the room.
“Elinor, my love, you must get some rest,” he cried. “This can wait until morning; we had all better sleep, and let cooler heads prevail.”
“I should say so,” Willoughby agreed. “You cannot be in your right mind to relinquish all claim to the house.”
Elinor dried her tears and looked up at the gentlemen. “I only want a quiet life with Edmund. And some rest, yes.”
Willoughby moved that way and offered Marianne his hand. “Your sister is too generous, and Edmund is little better. I think we must insist on putting by some little annual sum for their children, at least. But we will continue in the morning. Marianne must have some say, too.”
“If I may,” Colonel Brandon interjected. “Perhaps you might wait until after the funerals. The estate is not going anywhere, and though it seems a lot now, there will be ample time for every provision.”
“He is correct,” Aunt Prudence said, a look of uncharacteristic contrition on her face. “I am very sorry for how it all came out—I never meant it to be such an ordeal—but I wanted you girls to have what is yours by right. We will sort it all out.”
Mary squeezed Marianne’s hand again. “We should all retire,” she observed.
“After such a tragic shock, I daresay nobody’s judgement is entirely sound—I mean no offense, but it is the truth.
” She turned to Marianne, who was lifted into Willoughby’s arms most unexpectedly.
“Rest, my dear friend—I shall remain at Norland as long as you will allow me, for I have made such friends here that I cannot bear to part with you all in such a crisis.”
Marianne nodded, still looking round at all her companions in confusion and despair.
She had not the energy to speak rationally, and she at last gave up any attempt to push herself beyond what she was capable of at such a time.
She gave in, and leaned into Willoughby as he began to carry her from the room.
She closed her eyes to allay the dizziness, letting his embrace soothe her into some measure of acceptance that after the horrors of the evening, all would yet be very well indeed.