Colonel Brandon's Diary (14 page)

‘Did Mrs Dashwood say when she would be receiving?’ asked Mary, ignoring most of his speech.

‘She was touched by your message, my love, and said she would be happy to welcome you at any time.’

‘Then I will go tomorrow,’ said Mary. ‘I do not wish to be backward in showing them any courtesy, for they have suffered a grievous loss. I wish to make them welcome here. I think I might take the children with me. They cannot help but be cheered by the sight of my two splendid boys and my beautiful little girl.’

 

 

Sir John and Mary visited the cottage today. In the end they took little John with them and left the two younger children behind. The visit went well, and they have invited the Dashwoods to dine with us tomorrow.

 

 

Sir John spent the morning visiting the neighbouring families in the hope of procuring some addition to our society this evening, but it was a moonlit night and everyone was already engaged.

‘I never thought I would consider it unlucky to be giving a dinner on a moonlit night, but so it is, for if it were dark, then there would be plenty of families sitting at home.’

‘And therefore not willing to visit us,’ said Mary.

‘What? Not willing to come such a short step, and with the offer of a carriage being sent for them if necessary? But at least your mother is coming,’ he said. ‘She will be here before the Dashwoods arrive — ’

‘As long as she has a tolerable journey,’ Mary put in.

‘And will cheer the young ladies. She will be able to tease them about their beaux!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Young ladies always like to be teased about their beaux.’

I thought of Mrs Jennings, with her jokes and laughter and vulgar humour, and I wondered what the Dashwoods would make of her.

The post arriving at that moment, I saw that I had a letter from Sanders. I excused myself and retired to my room where I opened it eagerly, but Sanders had no news. I put my disappointment aside as best I could, but I was in no mood for company, and when the Dashwoods arrived, I was silent and grave.

My silence was not noticed, however, for Sir John and Mrs Jennings were boisterous enough, with Sir John asking his cousins how they liked the cottage and Mrs Jennings teasing the Misses Dashwood about the beaux they had left behind.

Miss Marianne was asked to sing after dinner, and the music roused me from my melancholy thoughts. I turned to look at her, and as I watched her, I was struck by how difficult the last few months must have been for her. She had lost her father; after which she had had to leave her home, travelling across the country to live in a small cottage, when she was used to a mansion house. She had found herself in a strange place with strange people, far from her friends, far from everything, save her family, that she knew and loved. And I was aware of all this because it was all going into her music. Her feelings of loss and heartbreak were pouring out of her through her voice and her fingers.

I could not take my eyes away from her. The emotion on her face was now light and now shade, now sadness and now regret; and the room faded and I saw nothing but Marianne until the song had finished.

I came to myself, to find that the others were chattering, and I thought, How can they chatter when such music is being played?

I walked over to the piano, and as Miss Marianne was about to leave the piano stool, I said, ‘Will you play this?’

‘Gladly,’ she said.

I opened the music and she settled herself again, resting her hands over the keys, and then began to play. I stood by the piano, the better to listen to her, and I turned her music for her when she needed it.

There was a pause when the song finished, and I was ashamed to find that there was no applause, for the song had certainly deserved it. Then Mary, remembering her duties as hostess, said how delightful it had been and asked Miss Marianne to play ‘The Willow.’ Miss Marianne and I exchanged surprised glances, for she had just played that very song.

I pulled another piece of music forward and asked her if she would not sing that one instead.

When she had finished, the others did not even look up from their conversations, and I said, ‘A very pretty song.’

‘Pretty?’ she asked me, turning towards me and arching her eyebrows.

‘You do not find it so?’ I asked her.

‘No, I do not,’ she said, and as she continued her voice became passionate: ‘Haunting, yes; lyrical and wistful; but
pretty
, no.’

I was surprised, for she was very forthright for someone so young, and my eyes followed her as she returned to sit beside her sister.

‘Well, Colonel, and what do you think of Miss Marianne? ’ asked Mrs Jennings when the Dashwoods had gone. ‘You seemed mightily taken with her.’

‘She is charming,’ I said.

‘Charming? Ay, that she is, and pretty, too. Just the match for a man such as yourself, a fine bachelor with a good bit of property.’

‘I scarcely know the lady,’ I returned. ‘Besides, she is too young for me.’

‘Tush! What’s a few years in a marriage? Nothing at all. A rich man like you, Colonel, should be married, and who better than Miss Marianne? You could listen to her play the pianoforte every night! Ay, I saw you attending to her, and what more proof of love could there be than that?’

‘I like music,’ I said.

‘But not as much as you like Miss Marianne, eh, Colonel?’ she said.

I could do nothing to curb her, for with her own two daughters married, she has nothing better to do than to try and arrange a marriage for everyone else.

 

 

We dined with the Dashwoods at the cottage, and I took Miss Marianne in to dinner. I wondered if I would be disappointed in her, if the extraordinary qualities I had found in her music and the forthright opinions it had called forth, would not be found elsewhere; but to my pleasure I found her to be just as interesting when we were discussing other subjects.

She was generous in her praise of her sister, amiable in her attentions to her mother, and interesting in general conversation, displaying a lively mind and a quick intelligence, as well as a great degree of sensibility.

She spoke of the home she had left behind, the woods and gardens, the walks and the view, and as she talked about it, I saw it all before me, with its fine prospects and its sheltered groves.

‘It must have been difficult for you to leave it, but you find your new home some consolation, I hope?’ I asked her.

‘What can console me for the loss of such a home, where every tree was known to me? ’ she asked. ‘But we can certainly never thank Sir John enough for his kindness. My sister-in-law’s behaviour made it impossible for us to remain at Norland, and we had to live somewhere. If Sir John had not offered us a home, I do not know what we would have done, for we could find nothing in the neighbourhood of Norland to suit us. It must have been difficult for us to live there in any case, for we would have had Norland before us always, and yet we would not have been able to call it home.’

As she spoke, I was reminded of Eliza, for Eliza, too, had dearly loved her home.

My thoughts went from Eliza to her daughter, and as the ladies withdrew, I fell silent. I knew I should rouse myself, that it was unbecoming of me to be so morose, that I should help Sir John to entertain his guests, but I could not shake off the gloom that had taken hold of me and I spoke no more.

 

 

I was hoping to take Miss Marianne in to dinner at the Park, but instead I found myself escorting her sister, a sensible young woman with a fund of interesting conversation. I think I entertained her, even though my attention kept drifting to Miss Marianne.

‘You will be having visitors of your own before long, now that you have arranged the cottage to your own satisfaction,’ said Sir John to Mrs Dashwood. ‘You must be wanting to see your friends.’

‘Yes, indeed. We are hoping that one of our friends, Mr Edward Ferrars, will soon honour us with a visit. He has an open invitation,’ she said.

‘Ferrars? Ferrars? Can’t say I know the name.’

‘He is the brother of our sister-in-law,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘He is a fine young man, full of sense and goodness, and loved by us all.’

‘Does he hunt?’ asked Sir John.

Miss Marianne could give him no particulars, and Sir John remarked that he hoped that Ferrars did not enjoy the sport, for then he would be very glad to see him.

Miss Marianne was again prevailed upon to play, but Sir John talked all the way through her performance; Mary upbraided him, saying, ‘My dear John, how can you talk when we are being so entertained? I do not understand how anyone can be distracted from music.’ However, she herself was distracted a minute later by her children, saying, ‘No, William, do not plague your brother. I am sure he does not want his hair pulled. No, my love, he does not.’ Four-year-old William argued, thinking it a huge joke, whilst Mrs Jennings declared, ‘There’s nothing I like better than a good tune,’ and kept the beat, out of time, with her fan.

Miss Marianne persevered against this lack of attention for as long as she could and then left the pianoforte, out of spirits. I was about to go over to her and compliment her on her taste when Sir John distracted us all by saying that we must get up a picnic whilst the weather held.

Miss Marianne’s spirits were at once restored.

‘Oh, yes, Sir John, that would be delightful,’ she said. ‘I am sure there are some notable beauty spots hereabouts, and I would relish the opportunity of seeing them. There is so much of Devonshire I have to discover, and I would like to begin. Mama?’

‘It is very kind of you, Sir John,’ said Mrs Dashwood with a smile. ‘We would like it very much.’

‘Good, good, then that’s settled. We’ll get up quite a party, with the Careys, the Raistricks, the Kellys and one or two other families, and have a high time of it.’

A date was set for Saturday.

A fine day for our picnic. We met in front of the house and set out at about ten o’clock. I rode beside Sir John’s carriage and as I did so I could not help admiring Miss Marianne. Her face was truly lovely, with a brown skin, tanned by the summer sun, and a brilliant complexion. Her features were regular, her smile was sweet and attractive, and her eyes were dark. It was not their colour which attracted me, however, but the life in them, for they contained a spirit and an eagerness which reminded me of my true self, the self that saw the pleasure in life, the self that I had lost when I lost Eliza.

‘You have a comfortable carriage,’ said Mrs Dashwood, as Sir John and I rode along by its side. She was sitting facing forwards, with her parasol held over her head.

‘Ay, and one I wish you would borrow so that you could mix more in the neighbourhood. It is always at your disposal, and there are any number of families who would be pleased to see you. They are gentlefolk, all, and I am persuaded they will make up to you for the friends you have left behind. You must ask for the carriage any time you want it.’

‘Thank you, you are very good, but we must not presume too much on your hospitality,’ she said, politely but firmly, and I realized that she did not want to be too far beholden to Sir John; she was a woman who liked her independence. ‘Besides, there are plenty of families in walking distance of the cottage. ’

‘And I believe we have met them all, save the family who lives in the house along the valley,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘Do you know the one I mean? The ancient mansion house about a mile and a half from the cottage. Margaret and I are planning to visit it the next time we walk in that direction. Do you know who lives there?’

Her sister, Margaret, who, at thirteen, had been too young to join us for dinner, was excited to be joining us for the picnic. She added her own eager enquiry as to the inhabitant of the house.

‘Oh, yes, we want to know the name of the house and to find out who lives there,’ she said.

‘That would be Allenham,’ said Sir John. ‘Mrs Smith lives there.’

‘Mrs Smith? Does she have any children?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘No, she is elderly. She keeps to her house; she is too infirm to mix with the world.’

‘Then I believe we now know all our neighbours, or all those who are well enough to go into company,’ said Miss Dashwood.

We reached the picnic spot in little more than an hour. The carriages rolled to a halt and we assembled on a flat stretch of grass about halfway up the hill.

‘Can we not go to the top?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘It is too steep for the carriages, but we can walk, if you have a mind,’ said Sir John.

Some of the older people chose to remain where they were but the rest of us began to climb the hill. Margaret ran ahead, frolicking from one side to the other and climbing the boulders that lay scattered about, until at last we reached the summit.

‘Was this not worth the climb?’ asked Miss Marianne, as she gazed rapturously at the view, looking across the rolling downs to a glimmer of blue on the horizon, the sea. She began to murmur:

‘And it is still England, though I am so far from home,’ she concluded in a low voice.