Chapter Nine
Mary Crawford was happy when their walking party turned back to the house, and doubly so when their approach afforded her a glimpse of the equipage that conveyed her harp at last. Her instinct was to look over at Edmund, who had spoken to none but his mother and aunts during their excursion.
Mary felt quite as though this was her last chance, for her performance on the harp had won him over once before, and if it did not succeed again on this occasion, she would be utterly at a loss.
And yet, she wondered at it all. Little more than a fortnight ago, he had been the one to exert himself to bring her around.
She had been warming to the notion of compromising her ideals, of really considering the life of a clergyman’s wife.
She knew not what angered her more—that he had thought it right to expect such a concession from her, or that she had been very near to accepting it, only to find it all now in vain.
To be sure, his withdrawal from her had whet her appetite—like Henry, she enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
Or so she had thought. Already it had begun to wear on her.
It was different for men—lovelorn Henry was every bit the star-crossed hero in his pursuit of Maria, which Mary wished rather than fully believed to be sincere.
But for a lady, however gently-bred and well-dowered, to behave in such a way, even towards such an honorable man, must be a desperate and unbecoming thing, inviting censure and derision, or worse yet—pity.
She did not make the rules of society, but she was obliged to follow them.
How it chafed! If Edmund was so inclined to sulk about, let him do as he wished.
She was really almost resolved not to trouble herself any further.
Whatever vexed him, he was not inclined to confide in her the way she would like—but better he should reveal such a deficiency in both trust and candor now, rather than once it was too late for her.
Her pace back to the manor grew swift and resolute—she would enjoy herself here just as she set out to do, and she would play her instrument, even for an empty room!
And yet she knew it would not come to that.
Marianne Dashwood had expressed some musical inclination, and Mary took pains to attach herself to the girl as they made their way back through the meadow.
“Miss Marianne,” said she, “I hope you will join me in welcoming a new arrival to your brother's house—I have sent for my harp, and I believe it is arriving even now.”
Still hanging on the arm of her handsome beau, Miss Marianne looked over at Mary, her eyes flashing with excitement. “You play the harp! Oh, but I never had the patience to learn—I should dearly love to listen to you.”
“I mean to subject you all to it, if I can,” Mary teased with a wink.
“Let us all make merry music,” Mr. Willoughby rejoined, giving Mary one of the smiles that must have caught Miss Marianne at once.
“If you will both play for the group, I shall add my own voice to the harmony. I am sure we must find someone to play violin, and then, you know, we might make a tour about the countryside like proper troubadours.”
Marianne’s tinkling laughter was music of a sort already, and Mary found it incredibly endearing. “Oh, you must sing, Willoughby! And when Edward comes, you must read some poetry for us—I am sure your example might do him good!”
“Your sister is sure to write me a very pretty note of thanks,” he whispered, though far too loudly.
Mary had lost the thread of conversation, but was not ready to relinquish the fine company. “Pray, who is Edward?”
“He is Fanny Dashwood’s other brother—do not let Robert Ferrars’ character mislead you, for Edward is everything amiable and kind.”
Mary laughed. She had not found Robert Ferrars to her liking at all, despite her hostess’ best efforts to unite them over dinner and afterward, and Miss Marianne’s candor engendered the same in Mary.
“That is certainly a welcome relief! All I have had from Robert Ferrars is a preposterous rhapsody about parsonages—I was a guest in one recently—and yet such observations were not at all to my liking—or even sensible! Well, I am glad that Edward Ferrars will not be talking such nonsense to us all. Pray, when is he expected?”
Marianne chewed her lip. “I cannot say—but I am sure he must come very soon. Although I do think on the subject of parsonages he may have much to say, for I believe he aspires to join the church.”
“Oh—I had thought Robert Ferrars the younger son. Surely the elder would not take orders!”
“That is just Edward’s way. But you shall hear better sense from him than some of our party.”
“Than from most, if my information is correct,” Mr. Willoughby added.
Mary furrowed her brow. He could be nothing to her, if the elder Miss Dashwood was already attached to Edward Ferrars—she was not like Henry in that respect.
Yet what a disappointment that another dull clergyman was to come amongst them!
She wished for all the world that if they were to have any addition to their party, which was rather a large one, that it be the sort of man she had hoped Edmund might prove to be.
To Mary’s chagrin, her feelings must have been readily apparent on her face, and Mr. Willoughby leaned in to tease Marianne.
“You shall not entice Miss Crawford with such language as this, Marianne. If she can expect only a clergyman whose feelings are engaged elsewhere, she shall grow quite desolate.”
Mary took the jape in good humor. “Oh, yes. Better to say we shall be joined by a handsome, brooding sort of fellow—a romantic hero of first rate appearance, with a decided air of mystery and fashion, prone to fits of passion and most eager to bestow his affections.”
“How very novel,” Mr. Willoughby drawled.
“It would be rather like a novel if such a person appeared amongst us,” Marianne laughed.
“Surely I know of no such man, besides you, Willoughby—though you are far too open to be called mysterious, but for my meeting you in such heavy rain. Surely John and Fanny do not know anybody half so interesting, and would likely not admit him to the house if they did! But I shall hope for your sake nonetheless, Miss Crawford.”
Mary had let her disappointment over Edmund make her nonsensical, and she tried to laugh it off. “I am sure I shall not grow too desolate. I have my instrument now, and my very handsome harp must be the object of all my hopes and affections.”
Mary was as good as her word, and when they returned to the house she adjourned to the music room at once.
It was connected to the large drawing room by a set of wide doors that had been opened in the interest of the young ladies entertaining the party until dinner.
The drawing room windows faced full west, which might have irritated Mary, but for the advantage of lighting provided as she gave her performance.
Edmund was not amongst them, but Mary was determined neither to notice nor mind his absence; she played for herself, and for her new friend Marianne.
After a few minutes it was not such an effort.
She had always loved playing, loved the feelings of peaceful pride that came with willing the strings to do her bidding.
She played a piece she knew by heart and closed her eyes, shutting out her audience to lose herself in the music.
The effect might have been too engrossing, for when she opened her eyes at the end of her song, she was almost startled at the applause from more than a dozen people.
Marianne, who had been most insistent on the use of Christian names, rushed toward Mary at once.
“Come, you must play a duet with me at the pianoforte,” she cried.
She caught Mary by the hand and led her to the instrument, where she assaulted Mary with a tremendous quantity of sheet music to look over.
The conversation in the room started up as Mary looked over the music; with so many people, it was all just a strange, euphoric buzzing in her ears.
All this had transpired within but a moment of Mary’s song, and she was still nearly in a trance from the emotion of her performance.
This tranquility was now abruptly cut through by the voice of Mrs. Jennings, an old widow who had shown a peculiar obsession with the Dashwood sisters, and a delightful degree of conversational indiscretion.
“Colonel Brandon,” she cried, and every head in the room turned toward the doorway.
Mary felt the sheet music she was holding fall through her fingers, and looked down, watching the handful of papers slowly float toward the carpet until they were strewn at her feet, and then her head snapped back up. Had she conjured this man into existence with her silliness before?
Beside Mary, Marianne let out a low squeak, and behind the cover of the pianoforte Mr. Willoughby, looking rather startled himself, placed his hand atop Marianne’s.
Mary could not take her eyes off the handsome newcomer, and felt instinctively that he had been watching her for some time.
John Dashwood was beside him, and now led the colonel into the room.
“Yes, well, sisters, here is your friend from Devonshire come to call. What a fine thing for you girls! I have invited him to stay and dine with us.”
Mary glanced over at Marianne with some astonishment.
How could the girl have an acquaintance such as this and not spoken of it during their fanciful conversation before?
She looked back at Colonel Brandon, savoring the expression upon his countenance, pensive and enigmatic, sorrowful and yet hopeful—and such intelligence about the eyes.
What a man! He made his introductions to those of their party he did not know, and spoke to the other Dashwoods—but now he was coming toward them.