Chapter Nine #3
Willoughby glared up at the imposing man. That the Colonel seemed not to know the whole truth made Willoughby bold, and his anxieties were well enough allayed as to allow him the indulgence of indignation, for he could not but chafe at this interruption of his courtship with Marianne.
“What facts have you? Until you make your accusation outright, I can scarcely defend myself. If you have come all this way to make idle insinuations, I might point out that there is no crime in staying at an inn, and in being noticed, recollected, and spoken of by residents of the area. Perhaps it is not a phenomenon you have ever experienced yourself,” he spat.
“What accusations indeed,” the colonel thundered.
He stepped closer, his tall frame towering over Willoughby, whose attempt to stand himself was forestalled by the colonel catching hold of his cravat and pulling him to his feet—to his very toes.
Colonel Brandon was stronger than he looked, even at such an age, and his grasp made Willoughby too uncomfortable for any further insolence.
“I have come all this way,” the colonel repeated.
“I have come to put you on notice, sir. I trust my instincts, particularly as regards you. If I find that you have laid a hand on my ward, or that you are connected in any way with her disappearance, I shall return and claim restitution, such as I think you shall not like to pay. I hope this is clear enough for you.”
The colonel released him now with a slight but solid shove, and began to stride from the room, but Willoughby returned the shove, his hand jarring the colonel’s shoulder. Colonel Brandon spun about, hellfire in his eyes. Damn the man!
“I shall put you on notice, then. If you think to sabotage me for succeeding where you have failed—if you think to tarnish my reputation unjustly, I shall be the one to ask for satisfaction.”
The colonel looked utterly unaffected. “Either way, sir, I trust my instincts—and my skill with a pistol. And now you must be wishing to return to Miss Marianne. She so enjoys your pretty words, at present.”
The dinner gong had been rung, but Edmund came to an abrupt halt as he approached the stairs; Fanny Price was coming that way from the other end of the corridor, though he would have scarcely known her from a distance.
His first inclination might have been to continue down to the dining room—if she had not seen him, and fixed him with an uncharacteristic grin—but his curiosity got the better of him.
“Fanny! You look… different. Is that a new dress? No, you have changed your hair.”
Her usually meek smile was enhanced by a twinkle in her eyes; even her posture seemed more confident as she moved toward him.
“Oh—yes. Well, the dress is new to me—Julia did my hair, but she could not find any gowns that would fit me. But she was determined. This is one of Cousin Elinor’s cast-offs, for she said she no longer likes this shade of blue.
I am sure I saw her wearing it yesterday—she is really very kind. ”
“She is! But let me look at you.” Edmund made a great show of appreciating her appearance, and was rewarded with a very pretty blush from his cousin.
He was obliged to feign better cheer than he felt, for he had not imagined Fanny would take to the scheme to put herself forward so easily, and he believed that encouragement was the key to ensure such changes would take hold.
“Very fetching,” said he.
“I am sure my own clothes are very fine,” she said. “That is—on such a special occasion, it felt right to allow my cousins to do as they would in dressing me.”
“Very true. Well, I am glad you allowed it. I take it my advice did not go amiss?”
Fanny chewed her lip for a moment, but held his gaze rather than casting her eyes to the floor as she so often did. “I have thought about it a great deal, and compared it against the words of some others since we have been at Norland—today in particular.”
“Well, I am glad to hear it—I am sure my father will be delighted!”
“That would gratify me very much. I find myself quite content—and such small changes, really—what is a little extra ribbon and lace? A few curls arranged differently, some borrowed pearl pins—certainly not as shocking as I had expected.”
Edmund nodded, his smile pasted in place, though his pleasure was bittersweet. The poor girl could not know why she was being thrust out into the world, and he pitied her for the shock of it, though it was for the best. He offered her his arm. “Shall I escort you down to dinner?”
“Yes, thank you—I am sure my uncle shall make such a fuss to see me—but I am prepared for it.”
“Today did you much good, then?”
“It did. I attempted to converse more, and I believe I got on rather well.”
“Excellent! I hope you are ready to repeat the accomplishment.”
“I believe so, yes. Mrs. Jennings says she will sit next to me, and help me on.”
“Ah, I am glad you like her.”
Fanny’s countenance turned pensive. “I was intimidated at first, but I think she shall make a fine friend. Her open temper is not what I have been used to, but I believe there can be no ill in learning from her. Our Aunt Margaret has been very kind, as well, and Cousin Elinor, of course. Truly, Edmund—I do not say these things out of any sense of obligation; it is the truth, and it rather excites me.”
Whatever Mrs. Jennings had done to Fanny, Edmund was far from objecting.
He had thought the old widow might like Fanny as a companion, but he had not imagined she would evoke the beginnings of a transformation so quickly.
More the better for Fanny, for she must find some new situation before their family scandal went public, and tarnished her reputation with the rest of them.
For her, at least, there was more hope than for himself—she had only to gain, while he must have a great deal to lose.
He stifled a sigh. Since first meeting Mary Crawford, she had never been far from mind, and yet the scandal that looked over his family was only the latest of myriad reasons they could not be together. If she would not be happy with a clergyman, she would be even less so with a disgraced one.
Sir Thomas stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for his family to come down, and Edmund tried to cool the swelling rage he felt whenever he looked upon his father.
He was the cause of all their problems, though the plight of his youth might have been pitiable, had it not wrought such a disaster in the making for so many.
“Fanny Price, what a vision of loveliness you are,” Sir Thomas boomed; Edmund felt his cousin flinch and tighten her grip on his arm. “Well, well! I should be much surprised if some young man does not sit up and take notice! But we must have some dancing after supper. Come, give us a little spin.”
As Edmund and Fanny reached the bottom of the stairs, Sir Thomas detached his niece from Edmund, and lifted her arm to slowly spin her about as he took in the changes in her appearance.
It might have been a playful, fatherly gesture, but for Sir Thomas’s demeanor remaining as grave as ever.
It was awkward, and Edmund was sure Fanny felt it as well.
Fanny did her best not to shrink from them, though her eyes betrayed some panic. “Oh, dear—I had hoped to practice my conversation tonight—Julia and Elinor will help me with my dancing steps tomorrow. I am sure I should not wish to embarrass myself—or you, sir—by standing up with anybody tonight.”
This was the closest Edmund had ever seen Fanny come to arguing outright with anybody, and again he was obliged to mentally credit Mrs. Jennings.
Of course, it would not do for Fanny to become too forthright, as her new champion certainly was, but he was glad she had stood up for herself.
“There shall be other opportunities, Fanny,” he said. “When you are ready, of course.”
Sir Thomas grumbled at his son. “For Heaven’s sake, it is only a little dancing! Not as if I am asking her to stand up on a stage and recite lines of dialogue, as others have done.” Edmund grimaced at his father’s barb, and the two men shared a tense look between them, until they were interrupted.
Henry Crawford appeared at the top of the stairs, his sister on his arm. He grinned widely at them, and hastened down the stairs, leaving Mary to descend alone at a more sedate pace. She glanced warily at Edmund, and quickly looked away.
Edmund was aware of his father’s posture stiffening, for Henry Crawford set him on edge, given the circumstances—Sir Thomas still clung to the hope that Maria might be nudged into a reconciliation with Mr. Rushworth, despite Edmund’s many attempts to convince his father that this was folly.
Crawford was not daunted in the least by the disapproval that radiated from Sir Thomas, and had a very convincing appearance of being oblivious to the tension entirely.
He went directly to Fanny, took her gloved hand in his and kissed it as he gave a dramatic bow.
“Fanny Price,” he whispered with a seductive smile.
“I am quite overcome.” He straightened his posture and grinned at her, holding her hand still.
“You are utterly radiant tonight—your transformation leaves me quite speechless. Sir Thomas, Edmund—surely you intend to wait for Lady Bertram and her daughters—but you must allow me to escort lovely Miss Price in to dinner.”
As Edmund and Mary only gaped with astonishment—and Fanny with something like horror—Sir Thomas gave Crawford the nearest thing to a smile he had attempted in weeks. “Fanny would be delighted, I am sure. How very gallant of you, sir.”