Chapter Eleven
Mary Crawford was astonished at what a turn the evening had taken, for when the clock struck midnight, nearly half their party had not yet retired for the evening.
Young Margaret had been permitted to exceed her bedtime and sat examining a book of linotypes with the intermittently dozing John Dashwood, while Marianne, Mr. Willoughby and Henry attempted to draw Fanny Price out over a game of whist that sounded like it involved a great deal of cheating.
Mrs. Jennings had rallied herself to chaperone them all with a conspiratorial sort of vigilance, and sat in the corner making a great show of being fascinated by a little embroidery project.
But Mary enjoyed the best company of them all!
She had played three games of chess with Colonel Brandon, who had gallantly allowed her to win the first. The second victory had been all her own merit, and had given her the confidence not only to regain her composure around the alluring man and converse very naturally, but to lose gracefully when he outsmarted her in the third game.
Mrs. Jennings’ assurances, and the man himself, had done a great deal to allay her initial trepidation, and she had indulged her fascination with the man for most of the evening.
After their games of chess, he had asked her to play her harp again.
She felt very well at ease as she began to play her instrument, and she was glad of it.
She could not at all account for why a man should suddenly render her so very discomposed.
She had met other handsome, interesting gentlemen before, without losing her wits.
But as she was feeling more herself at last, she decided to think upon it no more, and make the most of her own serenity.
She pushed every thought from her mind and really played.
Often, she would allow herself some liberty with the notes and the tempo, infusing the songs she knew best with something of her own, and though she knew very well that the effect was enthralling, she played as much for herself as the colonel.
He was an appreciative audience, to be sure.
She felt his eyes upon her for the duration of the song, which was light and playful, but she was not bothered by the sensation.
She leaned into it, letting the few lingering butterflies in her stomach out at last, to dance across the strings, her fingers, and the man beside her.
By the end of the piece she felt a strange sense of connection to Colonel Brandon, and silently stared into his eyes for a minute or more as her hands rested on the strings.
A strange heat burned in her chest as they gazed at one another.
She had grown very comfortable indeed, when they were conversing together and playing chess.
To play for his ears alone had been an intimate thing—more so than she had expected.
She felt she had bared a piece of herself, and that his listening to her with such rapt attention had lent a great deal of intimacy to the experience.
The colonel was just as caught in the spell of the moment as she, Mary felt it instinctively.
She smiled slowly, afraid to speak and shatter the magic.
The sconces in the music room flickered, casting a dancing light on his face that was really quite captivating.
That he must be seeing the same effect upon her countenance as well occurred to Mary, and she chewed her lip, suddenly self-conscious again.
How very different this degree of discomposure was!
She was not distressed over losing the regard of a man, as she had inexplicably done with Edmund—no, this was just the opposite.
She was flustered now because she was keenly aware of inspiring a degree of regard in a man she had been instantly attracted to.
She had never experienced anything so intense, and she meant to savor it a while longer.
She boldly held his gaze, rolling her shoulders back.
The colonel pursed his lips, and she saw him catch his breath.
“Miss Crawford, play again!” Suddenly the youngest Dashwood girl was careening toward them.
Mrs. Jennings caught the child by the wrist, and laughed gaily.
“Well, now—you are over-tired, my dear! And your brother half-asleep! Both of you, up to bed—John! John, take young Margaret upstairs! Well, now Fanny, how do you get on at your card game there? I am sure Miss Marianne is letting Willoughby look at her cards—you must not allow such insolence!”
As John Dashwood ushered his young sister from the room, Mrs. Jennings turned bodily away from Mary and the colonel to address the others.
Though the wonderful tension between them had abruptly been broken, this sensation gave way to a private amusement that was almost as enjoyable.
They both began to laugh at once, and not nervously but very naturally.
The unspoken thing that had passed between them was acknowledged—reciprocated—and with no awkwardness beyond the startling reminder that they were not alone.
“Perhaps,” Mary said softly, arching her eyebrow at the colonel, “I shall come to enjoy Mrs. Jennings’ friendship after all.”
The colonel laughed again with her, his countenance rendered so entirely different than when he brooded, yet equally as pleasant.
She liked the way he held his mouth, yet dared not dwell on that.
“Yes, yes.” Another breathy laugh. “But truly, Miss Crawford… I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. The song—I have never heard anything so… alive. You express yourself with wit in conversation, but in your playing there is something else, something deep and open and artless.”
Mary blushed, and actually sighed. “My goodness, I think that is the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me. About my playing. Oh.”
The colonel stood and offered her his hand, and she accepted it without realizing what he was about.
“You are tired,” said he. “I fear I have monopolized your time—but I cannot tell you how you have lifted my spirits, even after hinting that your own were much depressed. I did not expect to be sorry to go away, but….” He stopped and shook his head.
“Forgive me, I think I grow tired. May I walk you to your room?”
Mary stood and linked her arm through his, sorry that their time together must be over; and yet, she had yawned as soon as he had said the word tired. “Yes, of course. But how quickly the evening seems to have passed. And you are to go away tomorrow?”
The colonel smiled wistfully as he led her into the corridor, and then whatever inscrutable feeling was in his countenance was obscured in the dim lighting. “Yes, I must depart in the morning. I have obligations that cannot be delayed.”
This tore at Mary’s heart. Her bold speculation to Marianne had been almost instantly answered with absolute perfection, and yet he was to go away. “I wish you great success in them,” she said, hoping not to betray her disappointment.
Her hand rested in the crook of his elbow, and he placed his free hand over hers. “Thank you. I had thought it rude to inquire—but—whatever it is that you hinted at troubling you, I wish you well—that is, I wish your confidence returned; you have every recommendation.”
Mary smiled widely, drawing a little nearer to him. “As do you,” she murmured. She hated this sensation of saying what must be a very final goodbye.
“Miss Crawford, might I ask you a small favor? I feel you are a person I can esteem above nearly every other in this house.”
“Anything,” Mary said—rather too quickly.
“I have often observed you, from the earliest moments of our acquaintance….”
Mary held her breath, her chest rising with anticipation of—she knew not what.
“...showing a very pleasing degree of warmth to Miss Marianne, and I would ask you to be a true friend to her.”
Mary nearly lost her footing on the stairs. After so many hours passed together in perfect harmony, she had forgotten about his prior attachment. “What?”
“She has a kind and caring mother, and Miss Dashwood, as well—but I know she is not easy here—I know somewhat of how abominably her half-brother has treated them, and…. What I mean to say is that such a person as you, so lively and feeling, yet wise and mature—you could do her much good, while you are all here.”
“Oh. That is very kind. You are a good man; I admire your compassion. Yes, I have perceived a certain dynamic there. But I had thought….well, never mind.” Mary turned away and grimaced, furious at herself for lacking the courage to simply ask what she wished to know.
But his thoughts were all for Marianne, despite what had passed between them before.
Just as strange as her attraction to the colonel had been, the jealousy she felt now was equally foreign to her.
They walked through the gallery upstairs and arrived at her door before Mary recalled herself enough to actually answer his request. “I hope I have been a good friend to Marianne already, but I will do as you ask, of course. I believe she is in some distress, and I will do what I can for her.”
Mary truly meant it. She was only sorry that the situation must be so fraught—that a young lady she had hoped to befriend could feel so adversely to the man Mary herself had quickly come to admire—and that the man in question preferred her friend to herself.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Mary made no reply, for she could not make out his expression at all; the sconces were further apart in this part of the house.
The near darkness, at least, concealed the tears that began to roll down her cheeks.
What a miserable thing, to feel as she did, and quite against her own nature, and yet to have such little hope in it.
The colonel, too, remained silent until they had reached her door, and then he said, “Good night, Miss Crawford. It was a pleasure meeting you.”