A Barton Vignette

[Part One--Anguish]

Part Two--Resolution

She could not tell him straight out--that was certain enough. The colonel, having returned to the Park from St. Ives the evening before, was expected for breakfast, and she could not simply greet him on the path with, "Colonel Brandon, I do not love you." That would be a rude, a gross invasion of his privacy. Marianne walked round and round the cottage, shredding blades of grass until her fingers turned green, not unconscious of the peculiar niceties of feeling that made her concerned with mere discourtesy when she contemplated a much greater ruthlessness. Why could she not be sanguine about a decision to which she had sacrificed sleep, sustenance, and tranquility of mind, a decision that should have brought her at least the somber peace of an unpleasant task completed? As she could not presume to tell him the nature of his own feelings, she must find a way to let him know hers. She could not be comfortable in his society leaving so much unsaid. How should she broach the subject? It was their habit after a meal to walk in the fields or to talk a while. He would no doubt have a new book to share, but she would not let him read to her; she would not let him hope a moment longer, or invest further effort in an outcome that could never be. She must be very cool toward him, and perhaps begin to talk admiringly of Mr. Charles Trevor. But there he was on the road--he was stepping onto the path--and she ran into the house before he should see her.

She had little to say during the meal, but she hoped he would not notice as he related the news he had learned from his former comrade and some naval officers on leave to whom he had been introduced. He was so obviously pleased to be among her family again that she hated herself for planning such a campaign against him; he had no way to defend himself from the blow she would soon deliver--for of course one consequence of her rejection would be a certain isolation from his friends. In their separate groups they could ignore a sad estrangement between two of their number, but they could not all be together again in such conviviality. She felt wretched to contemplate that loss.

Colonel Brandon, whose powers of observation were the equal of those of any other man in love, that is to say very keen with regard to the object of his affection, had noticed the change in Marianne from his first sight of her. The strain around her eyes, the smudges under her lashes, told him that she had not been sleeping well, and he felt what in a friend would be concern but in a lover is anxiety. She did not press him for news as she usually did, nor did she ask what new books he had purchased. She showed no interest in his descriptions of the wild Cornish moors, though he strove for her pleasure to make his account exciting. She did not laugh with everyone else when he imitated a Cornishman's incomprehensible accent. She did not smile or meet his gaze when he offered her more tea. He could not put a name to her discomfiture; he had never seen this mood before. He had feared that upon reflection she would condemn him for his conduct toward Willoughby, but in that instance he would expect a cold aloofness, a quivering anger, not this solemn nervous tension.

He had brought a new book, and when he carried the chairs out to the lawn Marianne followed along with her sewing as if being led to the gallows. She would tell him she was not interested in reading, and he would be so astonished that he would ask what troubled her. But that would gain her nothing: the burden of raising the subject would still be hers. She might just as well out with it now, blurt it with all the subtlety of a Mrs. Jennings.

"Allow me to read you a passage I believe you will appreciate," he was saying, and she could not make herself object. He must already have told her the author and title, but she had not heard.

His voice was both soothing and stirring, but half-lost in thought she hardly distinguished the words. Perhaps, she thought with some relief, he did intend to say nothing after all. But should she wish for that? Should she wish them to proceed in falsehood, both guilty of concealment, he of his feelings, she of her knowledge? But if he were to speak-- All the women of her acquaintance (as well as her brother John) would be aghast that she would even consider refusing the attentions of such an eligible bachelor. She more than any of them could speak to his goodness, but he was also pleasantly tall, and fit, for he was a temperate, active man. It was true that he was not especially handsome, but intelligence and virtue always lent attraction, and there was such kindness in his eyes--

How could she be thinking of him thus, when not one word had he said!

He looked up from the page for her response, and was startled at the intensity of her gaze--toward him but curiously inward as well, and with something of appraisal in it. He had never seen this look before, either. As if in reaction to his falling silent her gaze altered its focus, but when their eyes met she looked quickly away, and directed her attention to her needlework. He resumed reading, but he was suddenly incapable of pronouncing a full line without stumbling, and apologized for his clumsy efforts. Her look of alarm, that of a schoolroom child caught in inattention, told him that she knew nothing of his errors, that she had not heard him at all. But instead of simply begging his forgiveness for her distraction--as sometimes happened when she was absorbed in the power of descriptive language, seeing in her mind's eye the scene depicted--and urging him to go on, she blushed hotly and again turned away.

Dear God--she knew. Her unaccustomed shyness and modesty could have only one explanation--that she had guessed his true attachment to her. He had been more unguarded in his speech than even he had realized, and upon reflection she had perceived its true import. Despair settled around his shoulders like a mantle and pressed him toward the earth with its unforgiving weight. She knew. And the knowledge had not brought her pleasure, for clearly she had no idea what to say to him now, no notion how to act. Perhaps her confusion stemmed from uncertainty. She was young and inexperienced; perhaps she was not positive what name to give to the feelings she had sensed from him, and feared to embarrass herself or him by too dramatic an assumption. Whichever was the case, an unspoken tension now existed between them, a tension that he had caused and must now address.

He closed the book and set it aside. "Miss Dashwood."

Marianne had long since stopped trying to sew, for her thread was tangled beyond saving. At the gravity of his tone she stiffened, and then turned slowly toward him, but she could not quite meet his eyes.

How would she greet the confession of his feelings? But he must confess them, for he must help her to name what she had sensed, must ease the way for her to speak. He knew he risked their friendship, but due to his carelessness their friendship was already forever changed; it could no longer progress in innocence. "Miss Dashwood--" He knew she would not deceive him. If his attentions were now unwelcome she would turn him away just as she had turned away her other would-be suitors. She was compassionate; she would not permit him to hope without cause. He would welcome such directness, for he would hardly like to be with her if she were always feeling sorry for him, treading carefully to protect his heart. "I fear I may have been too free in my speech at our last meeting." Her cheeks colored and she looked down at her hands, wadding her cloth into a ball. "I believe that you are now aware--that I allowed you to sense the--the true extent of my regard for you."

She drew a shuddering breath and somehow found the courage to lift her gaze to his, but did not know what she should say, the situation being entirely unfamiliar to her. Not once had Willoughby declared himself. She had assumed his affection, but she had never heard him speak of it. Still she was torn between a desire to confront the issue and a fervent wish that her companion should say no more. Now, before he continued further--she must tell him now. But she sat mute--for if he could nerve himself to speak she must nerve herself to listen. There should be no secrets between intimate friends.

"Miss Dashwood--Marianne--I will say the words, if you will permit me. I do love you, with all my soul." Her blush deepened; the cloth was damp between her palms. "I know you do not at present return my affections to that same degree, but if you believe that your regard for me is sufficient-- If you believe that in time-- Will you do me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage?"

He had never imagined uttering such a tedious, formal proposal to her. When he had dared to conjure the moment he had imagined clasping her hands and pouring out his love into her receptive heart. He had imagined joy, not dread. But it was too soon for such ardent expression. He had been forced by his own indiscretion to address her before the time was right. He had meant to wait until she gave him some indication that she would welcome an offer. Had he never received such a signal he would never have spoken, would never willingly have jeopardized the level of intimacy he had gained. He must proceed with great care, must try to read beneath the taut agitation in her face. Did she resent his implied assumption that her undoubted fondness for him was sufficient to bring her happiness in marriage? She equated love with grande passion, and he had known such fervor once when he had been young; but in his maturity he had learned that there are far more layers than that to love. Was it presumptuous--or naïve--to believe that in time she would make the same discovery? Was he right to ask this woman to marry without love? But once the emotion was proclaimed it could not then be repressed again; it must be granted its natural expression. He could trust her not to admit to feelings she did not possess; he could trust her not to marry him out of pity. He waited, the breath stopped in his throat, for her answer.

Though her eyes were very wide and her cheeks very red, though her own breath came almost in gasps, she was relieved that the problem was now before her, that it had been freed from the excesses of her imagination and brought into the light where she could consider it with some degree of rationality, where it was somehow rendered less terrifying. "You do me great honor, Colonel." Her voice was soft and not very steady. "As you have surmised, this has been rather a sudden revelation to me." A look of both yearning and apprehension had taken possession of his features. Others must have seen such a look from him, but never she. If he had ever once shown such a look to her-- "May I ask--for a little time to consider? May I give you my answer tomorrow?"

He was relieved that she had not said no straightaway, disheartened that she had not said yes. "Of--of course. Perhaps--I might call after breakfast?"

Her pulse thrilled with alarm. Did he want an answer quite so soon? But after he had waited so long already, it seemed heartless to make him wait even another hour. And had she not really been considering the question during the entire nine days of his absence? Surely she could be resolved by morning. She gave a nod.

There was a short silence. And then he said, with wry sadness and an attempt at a smile, "I feel as though I should beg your forgiveness."

The absolute understanding in her look was something of a balm to his heart. "No," she said, "never that."

"I had best take my leave. Will you return to the cottage?"

The questions that would greet her there!--why had the colonel left so soon, why did she seem so distressed? "No, I shall walk a while." Later, when the timbre of her voice would prompt no curiosity in its hearers, she could say that he had recalled other business.

He bowed to her, and she watched him down the path and onto the road, watched him until he disappeared around the bend. He always carried himself well but he seemed now to be holding his shoulders with unnatural stiffness. He believes I will say no. And indeed why had she not? Why did she delay the inevitable result? For surely it was inevitable. What other answer could she possibly give?

She saw that he had left the book in his chair. She turned to the page marked by the ribbon and began to read the poem that he had tried to share with her. So moving were the lines, so perfectly had he chosen, that she wept.

********************

She accomplished little during the remainder of the day. She walked and reflected for a time, and then picked up her sewing again, but she soon had to pull out most of the stitches. She was quiet at supper, and unresponsive to Elinor's querying glances across the table. But when Elinor retired early Marianne followed her upstairs, very thankful that her sister would not depart for several more days. She was not at all confident that her mother, whose approval of Colonel Brandon was unconditional, would be capable of understanding her hesitation.

When the door was safely closed, Marianne sank into a chair as if exhausted. "He has asked me, Elinor. He has proposed. And I do not know what answer to give him."

Elinor sat back against the bed pillows. "You knew quite well Tuesday last." Her tone mingled sympathy and a certain helpless frustration. She wished she could embrace her sister as Marianne had embraced her when Edward had proposed, but she was deprived of this most natural reaction and uncertain what advice to give--or whether, in fact, she should give any at all.

Marianne's tone echoed her sister's. "I thought I knew."

"He is the best of men--"

"Oh, he is, without a doubt he is--but Elinor, I do not love him. I mean, I am not in love with him. Of course I have great affection for him as a friend."

Elinor reflected that though Marianne's regard for the colonel might be stronger than she realized, a feeling could not truly be called love unless the one in whose heart it reposed was sensible of it. "Do you compare what you feel for him to what you felt for Willoughby?"

"To what else could I compare it? I have loved only Willoughby."

"And I have loved only Edward. But should he be taken from me and should I then someday come to love another--" It was not lost on Elinor that Marianne did not immediately scoff at this notion as she would have done not a very long while before. "--I would not expect the feeling to be exactly the same. Is any experience as intense the second time as it is the first? The first time one sees the cliffs of Dover, or reads a particular poem-- Even unpleasant experiences are diluted by familiarity, such as visiting a dentist, or talking to Fanny--"

Marianne had been listening with a thoughtful frown, but now she interjected, "On that point I will dispute you. To me Fanny seems more horrible with each passing year." They shared a laugh; and though she sobered quickly Marianne found that the laughter had dispelled some of her tension. "Then--how will I know if I have formed a second attachment if I have nothing to which to compare the feeling?" To think that she--she--could even admit the possibility--! Once she could sooner have imagined that the earth could stop turning.

Elinor considered carefully before answering; she must not put notions into her sister's head. "Perhaps you could compare your feelings for Colonel Brandon to what you feel or do not feel for other men of your acquaintance."

"All other men are wanting compared to him." Marianne spoke without an instant's hesitation. "They are young and shallow and unformed, and I would not consider marrying any of them. I value his society more than anyone's in the world save yours and Mama's and Margaret's."

Elinor smiled, not least at Marianne's own surprise at the vehemence of her response. "Such strong esteem is hardly a poor foundation for a marriage."

"But it is not love. I swore I would never marry but for love."

"You swore that when but a girl. We change our minds about many things as we get older. People for whom love can only be a dizzying passion are always falling out of it, you know. That sort of love is not a suitable foundation for a marriage--a foundation should not make one dizzy."

Even as she considered her sister's points, Marianne was aware that such objective dissection of emotion was entirely foreign to her long-cherished ideal of love as ardor beyond resistance; and yet at the same time she could not imagine not consulting her own heart and mind on so vital an issue as this. Did not the poets, even Cowper and Donne and Spenser, examine emotion? How else could they describe feelings so well that their words struck sympathetic chords in a reader's heart?

"You might ask him to wait," Elinor was saying. "You could decide over the course of a month or two. Considering him as a suitor is new to you."

"But all our conversations would be so terribly awkward. I think he would not subject himself--or me--to such a strain."

"A separation could be beneficial. You might suggest it."

Very softly, Marianne said, "An entire month--two--without his company?"

"When are you to give him your answer?"

Marianne's shoulders sagged. "Tomorrow after breakfast."

"Do not hesitate to tell him you need more time. He will understand."

Marianne nodded sadly, trying not to picture the anxiety that would surely darken his face upon hearing such a request. She said then, "I am only thinking aloud and keeping you from your bed when you need to rest. Elinor, please do not tell anyone, even Edward--not just yet."

Elinor gave her promise and Marianne withdrew to her own room. She did not immediately prepare for bed, however, but rather sat in the chilly window seat with her chin propped on her hand, looking out at the night. Did he sit wakeful as she did?

Elinor was right: she was no longer a girl. But more than that, she had suffered in love. It was natural that she should be less headlong in her feelings. And she had ceased to consciously heighten the intensity of whatever emotion visited itself upon her, as if coaxing an ember into a blaze--any emotion, that is, of a sensational nature, for in serenity, of course, she had formerly had no interest. She must also consider that there might exist different kinds of intensity--not only the crashing wave, but also the slow, relentless swell, each with its own staggering power.

She found, to her astonishment, that it was not in the slightest strange to think of him as her husband, to imagine the pattern of her days in a life with him. Already they spent more time together than many couples of her acquaintance, and certainly were more congenial. Sir John and Lady Middleton might dwell in the same house but they seemed hardly to speak to one another. Mr. Palmer, now that he had been elected to Parliament, spent every minute he could away from Cleveland and his sweet but silly wife. She and the colonel--if they should marry--would be more like her own dear mother and father, companionable in the evenings before the fire as they watched over their children, who might on occasion sense that wordless communication between their parents that Marianne had sometimes sensed between hers.

It went without saying that there would be little passion in a marriage with a man of mature years. Although she had realized by now that the colonel was in fact quite a safe distance from that dotage to which she had once sentenced him--with a nurse!--yet union with him must inevitably be more of the mind than of the body, and this she must accept. She could not expect raptures from him. But she was no longer as deeply in thrall to the idea of rapture as she once had been. Emotional abandon could wreak havoc within the hearts of oneself and others, the present situation providing apt example: were they two not in this dilemma because his feelings had escaped his control?

Suddenly she recalled a long-ago argument between herself and her sister on the very subject of their new acquaintance's vitality. The colonel had just departed the cottage, having conducted a long and polite conversation with Elinor in which they had read no poetry at all. Willoughby was expected, and Marianne was feeling very smug. Betsy chanced to enter the room, and Marianne, seeking support for her contention that the colonel was decidedly lacking in any trait that could be called lively, and still being of that age and willfulness when she had been prone to utter almost every indiscriminate thought that sprang into her head, asked the maid if her Thomas, who was about the colonel's age, was in his declining years still capable of any sort of passion. Elinor had nearly expired from shock; and poor Betsy had turned a violent crimson and succumbed to a fit of giggles. But she had finally, after looking about as if to make certain Thomas himself could not hear, nerved herself to respond with a look and tone both embarrassed and proud, "Oh, I should say, Miss!" And when Betsy had escaped this thoughtless interrogation, Elinor, after scolding her sister roundly for her rudeness, had informed her in a rather superior manner that Mama had obviously been happy in all aspects of her marriage until dear Papa had died, and Papa had been twenty years or more Colonel Brandon's senior.

Perhaps she was after all doing him an injustice. Perhaps she could expect more from an evening with him than stimulating conversation. Who, in point of fact, would expect raptures from such a quiet soul as Edward, and yet under insistent questioning Elinor had admitted that that aspect of marriage was rather less perturbing, in actuality far more pleasing, than she had anticipated. But her husband was of course still quite young, and Elinor loved him. Love no doubt made all the difference in the matter. Could she love her suitor someday? His devotion was beyond question; he deserved nothing less from the woman he married. She was assuredly his devoted friend--but would that be enough? Could it be right to allow him to accept so little in return for love?

Unresolved, she fell into a restless sleep.

********************

Brandon woke to the dawn in his eyes and a bustling somewhere near, and found that he had fallen asleep in the drawing room, where a maid was now cleaning the fire-grate. She gave a little gasp when she noticed him stirring in the chair, but begged his pardon and went about her work when he indicated that he had no need of her. He climbed upstairs to his room to wash and shave, surprised that he had been able to sleep at all. He had shot at targets with Sir John the previous afternoon and, to the open-mouthed amazement of his host, had missed almost everything he had aimed at. He had tried to read, but his every choice reminded him of Marianne, as something they had read together. Though the moon was only at its first quarter he had gone out for a walk near midnight; seeing a light in her window, he had found no reassurance in what that suggested about the difficulty of the choice she must make.

And why should she choose him? There were others such as he, not only landed gentlemen but also merchants and military men newly wealthy with prize money, who did not need an heiress for a wife. She would catch the eye of a man of discernment, who wanted a companion for his heart and mind more than he wanted an addition to his purse. She was young, with life before her--young, but no longer a girl. He would have lived without her rather than see her suffer as she had, but her suffering had matured her, just as his had matured him--though her maturity was not lacking in spirit. At eighteen he had been morose, but she was blithe; he was young with her, renewed. She was becoming what he had believed she could become, all those months before; she had no compelling reason to limit herself to him.

When he was presentable he made his way downstairs, but he had no appetite for breakfast and instead walked about the grounds. The gardens of the Park were more formal than those at Delaford, reflecting the character of its mistress rather than its master; the clean lines and angles of the shrubbery were in stark contrast to his inner turmoil. She would say yes, or she would say no--the matter was as simple as that. She would offer him joyous completion, or commit him to an emptiness all the more bleak because for a time he had thought something more within his grasp. Well, he knew how to be a solitary old bachelor--though relinquishing the hope he had cherished nearly a twelvemonth would be hard. But in time he might forget that he had ever hoped, and she might forget that he had strained the bonds of friendship farther than they could bear, and perhaps when she came to visit at the parsonage they could meet without intolerable embarrassment.

The hands of his watch indicated an acceptable hour. He set his steps toward the cottage and his fate.

********************

Seeing him on the road, Marianne went to meet him at the foot of the hill, to spare his having to make pleasant conversation with her family, who were just sitting down to table. His expression alternated between apprehension and resignation, and she wished she knew what to say to him.

"Miss Dashwood." He spoke very tentatively, unable to decipher the thoughts behind her wide-eyed, unsmiling expression.

She did not at once reply. A change came over her--a very subtle alteration in posture perhaps, in the tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders--he could not describe it. A succession of emotions crossed her face, none staying more than an instant, not long enough for him to name it. And then one expression remained--he would call it serenity, perhaps, a calm awareness of her own mind that could bode either well or ill for him. But there seemed to be affirmation in her look, encouragement. Her eyes seemed to glow in the morning sunlight. What was she feeling now?

The silence stretched between them. What she was feeling was certainty. At that moment she could not recall any feeling other than certainty. With his utterance of two formerly ordinary words, every scrap of her confusion had vanished before a sudden coalescing of her various trains of thought. She looked into his eyes. "I think," she said, with a smile that was half shy, half wise, "not for very much longer."

For a moment he could not move. He could not speak. He could only stare down into her face and wonder if he had heard correctly. But she stretched out her hands to him, with only a little hesitation, and he closed his fingers lightly around hers, and felt her answering clasp. "Are you certain, Marianne?"

The trembling of his voice touched her heart, and in that instant she felt the elder of the two. "I have never been more certain of anything."

Her declaration was a commitment to him, to their union, and upon the hearing of it a smile split his face, a smile of wonder and joy that swept all trace of melancholy from his countenance. She had never seen such a smile in her life. His hands tightened on hers and he drew closer. "I know you dislike trite phrases, my Marianne, but you have truly made me the happiest man on earth."

Far from recoiling from the sentiment, she was in fact surprised to feel an answering swell of emotion in her own breast, and the sting of tears in her eyes. It was no small privilege to be the cause of another's happiness, and while that was not sufficient reason in and of itself to marry him--for she did not believe in a total subjugation of one's own well-being to another's--yet there was deep and genuine pleasure in it, and she looked forward to many occasions of seeing that same glad expression. "And you have made me happy as well." He wondered at this, but she was sincere. All his tender care had helped to heal her, and without healing she could never have been happy again. It was to his steady, undemanding concern that she owed the restoration of her capacity to trust.

The colonel could have uttered a dozen, a hundred trite phrases and not begun to describe his elation. An erupting fountain, birds surging into flight, the sun bursting through clouds--all apt metaphors; all wholly inadequate. He wanted to crush her to his breast, but he must not overwhelm her. He had held her once--on that endless nightmare return to Cleveland through the storm, she half-frozen and insensible in his arms, his prayers for a passing farmer or tradesman with a cart unanswered, hardly aware of his own exhaustion until he could deposit her into the safety of Elinor's care--but when next he embraced her the sensation would exist in a vastly different universe of feeling. He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, but did not attempt to kiss her, fearing that this alteration of their relationship was yet too fragile to sustain so bold an action. There would be plenty of time for kisses. But what was this? Was she gazing at him with-- Surely it was expectation that parted her lips, tugged them into the slightest of impatient smiles. Naturally she would have formed certain notions about the proper behavior of a lover on such an occasion, and if he wished to keep her he had better conduct himself accordingly, had he not? He lifted her hands to his lips.

He kissed one palm and then the other, and then each knuckle and fingertip, and as his breath caressed her skin she felt as if a breeze stirred within her. Her hands had never received such kisses, bestowed by him with great care and attention. Standing so near him that the folds of her dress billowed about his legs, she could hear his breathing, could see the pulse beat at his throat. Every movement of his hands and lips was deliberate, minute, yet she swayed with their effect. She had been going to turn him away--with utter bewilderment she reflected upon it--she had been resolved!--and yet here she stood, satisfied, content, to let him kiss her hands, and trace each crease and vein with his fingertip. She had never before noticed the shape of his own hands, the fine hairs scattered across the backs. His eyes closed as his lips once more pressed against her skin; when they opened to meet hers a slow flush rose into her face.

She must have looked somewhat discomposed, for he stepped back a little and drew a deep breath, and said with a curious resonance to his voice, "Pardon me if I overstep--"

"Not at all--" Her own voice was barely a whisper.

He allowed their hands to fall, but did not release hers. "Would you--like to walk, or sit down?"

"Yes. Either. The day is very fine." She cast her gaze heavenward in supplication. After all their conversations was she now reduced to inanities at this most critical juncture? But how could she be expected to speak when her mouth was parched and her heart was leaping about in her breast?

"Yes, it is. A perfect day." He offered her his arm and they set out along the path.

She was intensely conscious of the nearness of his body, of the pressure of his arm tucking hers against his ribs, his other hand resting warm and strong over hers. She had never been so close to him--for her memory of that day at Cleveland was very faint and muddled, a vague sensation of floating through the air, so cold and numb that she could not feel the cradle of his arms against her back and legs. She found herself looking at him and then quickly away, and knew that he was doing the same, for once or twice their eyes met. So enormous a change, so sudden a transformation, was difficult to grasp. She would soon be this man's wife--the banns would be posted and she would marry him--him and his flannel waistcoat! She laid her hand over his, and heard his slight exhale, and after a moment curled her fingers underneath his palm.

He stared for a moment at their entwined hands, and then his thumb began lightly to stroke her wrist. His gaze traveled over her hair, her face, as if over the most pleasing sight that had ever met his eyes, until she blushed under his steady contemplation. "I--hardly know what to say to you," he ventured, and she was amused and relieved that he should suffer the same affliction as she. "I confess--I expected you to refuse me. I was walking late and saw that you were yet awake. If I may ask, what decided you?"

She was not unaffected by the amazement in his voice; it reflected her own. "I did give the matter a great deal of thought. Even when I rose this morning I was unsure of my answer. But there on the path I looked at you--and knew I could not bear to lose you." She gave a little shrug. "And the decision was made."

He brushed a fingertip underneath each of her eyes. "You are certain it is not a lack of sleep that accounts for it?" She laughed and shook her head. "How long will it be, I wonder, before I am convinced I am not dreaming?"

"Perhaps I should pinch you occasionally." It felt perfectly natural, even familiar, to be flirtatious with him--and did she spy a tinge of pink on his cheekbones above his delighted smile?

They walked for a while, exchanging happy glances, talking but little while they accustomed themselves to their new condition as an engaged couple. After some interval of time that neither could have named, he said, "Perhaps we should return to the cottage. They will think I have abducted you."

"Mama will hope we are halfway to Gretna Green!" She added in a tone of mock accusation, "I realize now why we were invited to the parsonage so often."

"I plead innocence--though of course I was all in favor, else I would have had to take up permanent residence at the Park, and then you could hardly have remained unaware. Do you wish me-- Shall I--speak to your mother this morning, or would you prefer that I wait?"

She realized that he was yet, even now, offering her more time, refusing to risk either her heart or her reputation on an engagement into which she might have entered with too little forethought. "This morning, by all means." She spoke with all the fullness of her promise to him, her wholehearted resolution, and his joyful expression showed that he had understood her. "I think you do not need to wonder what her answer will be."

"In effect I already have it. When I brought her to Cleveland, on the long carriage ride we had nothing to do but talk or be silent. She talked of you, and I tried to be silent, but her anxiety echoed my own and--I cannot remember exact words--so great was my despondence I think I was not very coherent--but I did, without any prior intent, confess that to me her daughter was" (with a tender look that yet spoke of too-recent fear) "the dearest creature in the world. She very kindly, then and subsequently, encouraged me despite all my own doubts, and determined to promote our marriage any way she could."

"Oh, clever Mama!" Marianne exclaimed. "I could do nothing but succumb!" But at the flicker of apprehension across his face she clasped his arm very tightly and favored him with her most radiant smile to show him she only jested.

"But I shall not rest secure," he staunchly declared, his confidence now restored, "until I have made an official application. I have never asked for a lady's hand, and I shall have you properly!"

********************

They came into the sitting room as the family were finishing the last scone and egg, and though neither had breakfasted the tumult of their separate emotions was such that eating did not much tempt them. The others looked up and offered their usual greetings, and were about to return their attention to their plates when first Elinor and then the rest became conscious that Marianne was on the colonel's arm. As he seated her next to her sister he allowed his fingers to very lightly brush her arms; her intake of breath was soft but he heard it, and upon his sitting down, their eyes met repeatedly across the table. These looks, if not the amorous gesture that had preceded them, were noticed by all but Margaret, as were Marianne's silence and pink cheeks and the colonel's uncommon distraction. At that moment he wished for some of Marianne's former impudence, for the boldness to address her mother before them all, for he thought he could be assured that upon this of all occasions they would forgive him a lapse in manners. But though he would not so lightly disconcert his beloved or himself, he did rather frequently cast his eye over Mrs. Dashwood's plate to monitor her progress with her toast. When that good woman took note--which she did really within a few minutes of their sitting down, though it seemed an eternity to them--she pushed back from the table, saying in a firm voice that she was sated and would now work on the household accounts in the parlor.

Brandon sprang around the table to catch her chair before Edward, who sat just next to her, could even think of doing so. "May I speak with you, ma'am?"

Receiving her knowing assent, he accompanied her, and a tingling silence fell over the room. Marianne stared fixedly at her plate, upon which she had not yet placed a single bit of food. Elinor clasped her hand, a silent query, and was overjoyed to see the brimming excitement in her sister's face when she raised her head. Edward found it difficult to chew with his lips stretched into such a broad smile, and Margaret, having at last deduced from everyone's giddy behavior what great events were transpiring, felt herself very grown-up for keeping silent in such an atmosphere. But she was not long required to maintain her stoical pose, for the petitioner and his hearer emerged from the parlor in much less than a minute. Mrs. Dashwood announced, to the astonishment of no one present, that Colonel Brandon had asked permission to marry Marianne and she had given it, and then while everybody was embracing everybody else she was able to finish her breakfast.

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"Tell me exactly what you said to Mama!"

Eyes laughing, the colonel hopped up from the bench by the estuary and struck a pose facing his betrothed. "I stood before her thus, with my hands behind my back like a suppliant child. 'Madam,' I said to her, 'I know I do not need to profess to you my limitless affection for your daughter. I can tell you now, most humbly and joyfully, that I have addressed her and she has accepted me. May we have your permission and your blessing?'--and I could hardly get out the words before she was clasping my hands and pouring out her own happiness!" He sat down again very close to her, and rejoiced to find her hand at once in his. "When shall we announce at the Park?"

"I should really like a day to savor it before the news is all about the neighborhood. We are invited for supper tomorrow, before Elinor and Edward depart. May we wait until then?"

"Of course. But I'll wager my demeanor will give it away tonight."

"Then you will simply have to wait here until they are all in bed!"

They talked effortlessly now, their accustomed mutual ease having been restored by food and drink and congratulations, and the fact of their engagement now being several hours old.

"You will not return to Delaford just yet?" she asked.

"I am determined to remain at your side every moment until the wedding, and ever after. Shall we go on a wedding trip?"

"Oh, may we?"

"Of course! Where shall we go?"

"I should like to walk the paths of the Lake District with you."

"Then the Lake District it shall be." He would steal kisses from her in the solitude of wooded ravines. "And then may we visit Avignon?--if the region remains as tranquil as at present, that is. I should like Sarah and her family to meet you without delay." She nodded eagerly. "Such pleasure I will take in introducing you as my wife! And then we shall come home to Delaford. You must make any changes there that you like."

"I cannot imagine what I should want to change--I love the place as it is! I am a little nervous, however, about managing the household. I confess I paid but little attention when Mama and Elinor tried to instruct me at Norland. I do not want to disappoint you--"

"You could never disappoint me. But my housekeeper is very competent--you may do as much or as little as you like."

"In that case--I believe I would rather direct my energies toward the tenants and the village."

His eyebrows rose. "Those good works we spoke of?"

"Yes--and I never dreaming that you would provide me opportunity!"

He talked for a while of his plans for the estate, of adding this and restoring that at the manor and of improving the strains of his crops and cattle, and Marianne, who by now knew the house and grounds quite well, applauded his every scheme. "I have been slow to proceed," he said. "There seemed so little point. Oh Marianne, I really did not think it possible for a single heart to contain so much joy! --Forgive me, I embarrass you--" For she had looked a little startled, and he reminded himself that he must exercise restraint; he must not inundate her with avowals of love.

"You know I believe in complete candor. We must pledge never to be less than straightforward with each other."

"I swear it, my Marianne."

A recent conversation played itself over in her mind. "You have already honored that vow, even before you made it."

He looked at her very intently, and after a minute or two he said, "I would not ask this but that you have raised the subject--your desire for frankness-- May I understand that you bear me no resentment on Mr. Willoughby's account?" He wanted, needed, to know whether she truly comprehended his actions, or was simply prepared to forgive them.

She looked first quite taken aback, and then introspective. "To be truthful, Colonel, I had hardly begun to reflect upon that matter when another--" (blushing) "--much more pressing--required my full concentration." She frowned. "It is all so long ago now." After some minutes' consideration, during which he was very much heartened that she did not let go his hand, she began to speak, with careful attention to her words. "It was not easy for me to learn your intentions toward Willoughby, but I should have understood them from the first."

"Perhaps you could not conceive that a gentleman of your acquaintance would seek such ugly conflict with serious purpose."

"Perhaps. But you are that poor girl's protector. He did leave you no choice. Colonel, you must believe that if I bore you the slightest resentment I could never have accepted your proposal. I do not say that in your place I would have taken the same action--if it is not too ridiculous to try to imagine what I might have done--but women do not think in such terms, and I do admire your courage in doing what you believed was your duty, no matter the cost." Willoughby, in contrast, had fled his obligations to Miss Williams and to herself. "And I understand now" (shyly) "that you chose the course you would have found most difficult to live with." It did not surprise her that he and Edward had become fast friends. They were men of similar principle, both willing to place honor before personal feeling--for Edward had been prepared to sacrifice his own and his beloved's happiness to his promise to Lucy. "Just as you cannot know whether your aim would have been true, I cannot know whether I could have become friendly with you had you--had the outcome of that meeting been otherwise. I suspect I could not, certainly not at once--but I would soon have learned the truth about Willoughby's engagement and his treatment of Miss Williams. His character would still have been before me. Could I have forgiven you then? I cannot know--but I think his ghost might always have been between us. I am so glad his behavior made the question moot. Perhaps that was the hand of Providence as well. God was good to spare all three of us."

During her long monologue his attention had not wavered for an instant. "Certainly from this day forward, I shall feel blessed. Thank you for--your candor." A new faith that the issue, left unexamined, would not fester silently and destroy their union from within, swelled within him. Willoughby's punishment would increase a thousandfold were he to learn that his enemy had gained Marianne's hand by talking of him. Brandon could not feel much sympathy at the thought. He reached up and followed the curves of one ringlet with a delicate finger, let the strands curl around his knuckle as it brushed against her cheek. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to favor me with a lock of your hair."

Her chin lifted slightly; her shoulders drew back. "I would rather-- Please do not misunderstand-- Do not take this amiss, Colonel, but I would rather give you something else--"

He dropped his hand, and the other loosened its clasp. He had never thought she would shrink from physical intimacies, had never suspected that her regard might be of such relative coolness that she would deny him the usual testament of a lady's attachment. "Of course--as you prefer." He was also angry that he had forgotten to proceed cautiously; her warm sentiment during the day had made him forget.

She sensed his shock and dismay, and knew that she had erred once again. In this new area she was uncertain how to behave. How strange it was to know him so well and yet not know him at all! "Please-- I do not mean to suggest--" Words failed her, and in a kind of desperation she reached for his hand and restored it to its place against her curls--a gesture of such artless intimacy that a small sigh escaped his throat. His frown of confusion told her that she must try to explain. "I would rather first give you--something I had never given--anyone to whom I was not engaged."

A wash of relief and comprehension lent him a brimming humor. "And have you been engaged many times?"

"No! That is not-- I did not mean to imply--" And then she noticed the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the amused pursing of his lips. "Will you tease me throughout our marriage, then?"

"That is certainly my plan, Miss Dashwood--but rest assured it will always be with affection. And what is this unique gift that you are anxious to bestow?"

Crimson flooded her cheeks. "Not anxious--but I thought-- It does seem--" Not in all the years of her life had she been reduced to stammering as often as during this one day. Shy but valiant, she pressed on. "Well--we are engaged--dearest Christopher--" She had not consciously intended to address him so familiarly, but she at once decided that she liked the sound of it on her lips and tongue.

His heart began to pound. Her use of his name--conjoined with an endearment!--her offering--she stunned him with her generosity. He determined to give her no cause to regret it. "So we are."

His words were the merest exhalation of breath, but they aroused in her breast a strange commotion, as did the trembling of his fingers when he brushed them against her lips. And then his lips, warm and soft, pressed against her forehead, her eyebrows, her cheekbones, her nose, her chin. Carefully, but with less hesitation as he progressed, he bestowed upon every part of her face his slow, sweet kisses, stopping after each to gaze intently into her eyes to make certain he did not frighten her. It was true that her head seemed to have floated away from her body, and that it was filled with the roaring of the sea, but these phenomena were causing her no significant alarm. His fingertips traced patterns on her face; she clung to his other hand with both her own. And then, at last, he slid his hand around her neck and pulled her quite irresistibly toward him and melded his lips to hers--and the foolish girl who had once believed that a man of such advanced years as seven-and-thirty was incapable of passion, that such a man could stir no answering sensation in her, was well and truly disabused of her misconceptions.

At last he drew away, and she was pleased to see that he looked as flustered and exhilarated as she felt. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, only partly in jest, "You do realize that every day we are together I will ask if you are certain."

She freed a hand and caressed his cheek, marveling at the slight roughness of the new growth of his beard. "I had better be certain now, had I not?" Willoughby's lips had never touched hers--for until the end his conduct toward her had always been gentlemanly--and now she was glad. Oh, how she was glad! She lifted a few strands of hair away from her dear friend's eyes. "And every day I will profess that I am, until your heart is free from doubt."

And one day, she felt quite certain of it, she would profess her love.

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© 2000 by Karen A. Beckwith

Continue to Prothalamion, or, A Song in Celebration of a Wedding

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