Chapter Thirteen
The afternoon that brought Marianne Dashwood to Sanditon was warm and clear.
Elizabeth walked arm in arm with her stepsister to a little tea shop on Grand Avenue, not far from the small townhouse Mrs. Jennings had rented for the summer.
Elizabeth was exceedingly curious about the woman Marianne had described in the most superlative terms, but the widow had declared with a wink and unconvincing loquacity that she was too tired from her travels to join them for their outing.
Instead, Elizabeth had the honor of introducing Marianne to Mrs. Bevan, and the three ladies sat down at a small table in the cobblestone courtyard beside the tea shop with their refreshments.
Marianne took in their surroundings with her usual effusions for aesthetic beauty.
She praised the ivy and wisteria covered buildings that surrounded them on three sides, the fashionable passersby on the avenue, the sea air and the sound of gulls, and the charming glimpse of the sea visible between the freshly painted houses across the thoroughfare.
After complimenting every aspect of their surroundings in such poetic language as must impress even the authoress at the table, Marianne had more of the same for her companions.
“I do not enjoy the observation of human folly as Lizzy does; even Mrs. Jennings likes everybody. I had expected to content myself by mournfully walking the beach until my hair and attire are poetically blowsy, or following Lizzy around, shielding her from the inanities of strangers, but what a treat that my favorite novelist should be amongst her circle!”
“It is miraculous I could tempt you to visit without mentioning what I knew would be a delightful surprise,” Elizabeth drawled with a shake of her head.
Mrs. Bevan smiled brightly; of all people, she had more cause than even Elizabeth to relish a new character to study. “There is only one thing that could cause so young and pretty a lady to turn misanthropic—heartbreak.” She sipped at her tea and waited.
Marianne gave a long-suffering sigh. “It has been more than a year, but I confess it does still pain me at times. Not long before Mamma married Mr. Bennet, I met a gentleman, Mr. Willoughby….”
Elizabeth listened with solicitous attention to her stepsister as Marianne recounted what Elizabeth already knew.
After months of courting her, even giving the impression he meant to propose, Mr. Willoughby had left town abruptly with no promises to return.
After Mrs. Dashwood became the new Mrs. Bennet, Marianne had travelled to London with her sister Elinor, who was concealing considerable heartache of her own.
But while Elinor had found her happiness with Mr. Ferrars in the end, Marianne had not been so lucky.
“That night at the ball was the last time I ever saw him; he treated me as a mere acquaintance of no importance at all while Miss Grey sneered at me and made her claim perfectly evident. And then I finally received the letter from him that I thought would explain all—and I suppose it did, though the whole truth utterly crushed me. He returned my letters, the lock of my hair, and severed our acquaintance entirely.”
Mrs. Bevan patted Marianne’s hand. “You poor thing! But you are far too young and lovely to give up on love merely because of one mercenary rake!”
“I did try. I became very ill after Willoughby abandoned me—Elinor and Mamma feared for my life! Colonel Brandon was gallant and attentive, and I was touched by his enduring regard. If I could love with my mind and not my heart, I am sure I could have been happy with him. But what I feel is no more than warm friendships, and for me that is not enough. I require so much!”
“That is eminently sensible,” Mrs. Bevan said. “I have too often heard of young ladies requiring too little in a beau.”
Marianne gave a thoughtful half-smile and sipped her tea. “I suppose every lady you meet must wish to share some tale of romance or heartbreak with you.”
“And I am heartily grateful for it! Even when it does not arouse my instant inspiration as a writer, I do love hearing people’s stories.
I often feel an almost impertinent curiosity for every little detail, once I have taken an interest in somebody.
Which reminds me….” Mrs. Bevan gave Elizabeth a wide smile, her eyes wide with playful anticipation.
“I was promised another riveting tale, Miss Bennet.”
Marianne also wore a look of interest. “Oh?”
“You know of it already—it is about Mr. Penny.”
“Oh! I do not know who I pity more! Either he or his lady must be fearfully odious—probably the latter—and how you have suffered for it!” Marianne brought a hand to her heart in dramatic compassion.
Nibbling at a croissant, Mrs. Bevan leaned forward, ready to be engrossed.
Elizabeth surveyed their surroundings to ensure their privacy, and then she began to recount the history of her ill-fated correspondence.
Mrs. Bevan and Marianne listened intently, despite the latter having heard it all before.
They gave every proper reaction—sympathy for Elizabeth’s self-recrimination after the death of her mother, understanding at how the correspondence had offered her distraction and solace, and wistful sighs as Elizabeth described the tender feelings that had touched her heart as the letters grew in substance and sentiment over time.
They marveled and lamented that Elizabeth and her mysterious correspondent had been so well suited, and speculated as to what barrier could prevent such affection from forming between him and Miss Penny.
“My poor, wounded sister,” Marianne sighed. “But there must be some missing piece—if he was such an exceptional man, why did his lady not wish to correspond with him herself?”
“Oh, I could think of a hundred reasons,” Mrs. Bevan declared. “She might have sought a more illustrious match, or perhaps her affections were engaged elsewhere. And perhaps the gentleman was not all that he seemed—he may have had mistresses or gaming debt—or perhaps he was not at all handsome!”
“But to you, he was just what a lover ought to be,” Marianne said to Elizabeth, her brow furrowed with earnest solicitude. “Oh, Lizzy, are we to be wretched together in so lovely a place as this?”
Mrs. Bevan quirked her lips to one side and then the other, as if wrestling with her own discretion.
In the end, her penchant for telling tales was insurmountable; she refilled her tea as she addressed Marianne.
“I believe your stepsister has found some consolation, though it may yet lead to further heartbreak.”
Marianne gasped. “Surely you do not have a new beau already—it has been but three months! I know you are very like me—when you love, it is forever. Your feelings cannot have been so shallow as to have gone away already. And second attachments are but specters of first love. Surely you must agree, Mrs. Bevan.”
The authoress smiled indulgently. “Many of the characters I pen may be attributed with such sentiments, but I am sure I have been in love half a dozen times! Poor Mr. Bevan did not walk an easy path in our courtship.”
“How romantic,” Marianne exclaimed, before turning her curious gaze on Elizabeth.
“My situation is not at all romantic, I assure you. It is a comedy of increasing chaos, and I am excessively diverted by it all—my heart is in no further danger, though not entirely free from my first love.”
Marianne clasped Elizabeth’s hand in her own. “I knew we were of one mind on such attachments!”
Mrs. Bevan tutted and shook her head. “Forgive me, but I cannot believe either of you. Miss Dashwood, you are full young to say such things; your heart shall be touched again, and likely very soon, for Sanditon is too full of handsome young men for a pretty creature like yourself to sojourn here without forming an attachment. And you, Miss Bennet—you must tell your stepsister all about your unusual courtship, and then see what she has to say about it! I worry a little for your heart, but I can at least agree you will soon be cured of your first infatuation.”
“Tell me about him,” Marianne cried. “Is he lively and gregarious, and entirely devoted to you?”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “No, not at all.”
With her teacup lifted halfway to her lips, Marianne paused and blinked at Elizabeth. “What? But would you not prefer a gentleman very like yourself?”
“He is, I assure you,” Mrs. Bevan interjected. “He is tender-hearted and intelligent, nursing a broken heart of his own, but still determined to remain optimistic. That is very like Miss Bennet.”
“Pray, tell me he is handsome!”
Both Elizabeth and Mrs. Bevan answered Marianne at once. “Yes!”
“Well, so are you, Lizzy, so I must say that I am already quite put out that he is not devoted to you. You deserve the best treatment, and should not accept anything else!”
Elizabeth smiled fondly at her stepsister. “Ours is an unusual arrangement. He was betrothed to his cousin—a haughty creature whom I am sure you shall despise—but she has thrown him over in favor of Sir Sidney Parker, whose vain and idiotic antics I have written of in my letters to you.”
Marianne looked disgusted. “So this supercilious lady believes that imbecile is preferable to your beau? Either she is out of her senses or he is most inferior!”
“He is one of the most superior gentlemen of my acquaintance, second only to Jane’s husband Bingley, who happens to be his dearest friend.”
“Is he similar in disposition to Mr. Bingley?”
“Not in the least,” Elizabeth said with a teasing smile.
“He despises dancing, thinks more than he speaks, dotes on his darling sister, and reads a great deal. None of these things could be said of my amiable brother by marriage, whom you shall have the pleasure of meeting in the next few days, Mrs. Bevan. He is my elder sister Jane’s husband. ”