Chapter Three

Epithalamion, or, A Lyric Ode in Honor of a Bride and Bridegroom

Chapter Three

"Marianne? Marianne! Dear God--"

Brandon was oblivious to the commotion outside the chaise as the men tried to calm the terrified horses, to the shifting of the vehicle as the animals' thrashing jerked at the traces, oblivious to everything but keeping his balance amid the chaos of their belongings while he sought to revive Marianne, who lay unconscious on the carriage wall. He rubbed her hands and face, wishing for some cool water and a cloth, for their water bottle had been flung against the ceiling and had broken. He searched for her reticule in the hope that she carried smelling salts, but it was buried God knew where under newspapers and books and parcels.

And then she stirred, and murmured his name. "Marianne! Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Marianne--"

"Christopher--" Her eyelids fluttered open and she blinked once or twice--and then drew in a breath sharp with memory and attempted to sit up. "Christopher! I heard you cry out--"

He tried to keep her still with gentle pressure against her shoulders. "You must not move too quickly--"

"I'm not hurt--I think I only fainted."

"No--I knocked the breath from you when I fell against you--forgive me, my love--"

"Yes, I remember now--something hit you--" Dismay widened her eyes and she surged upright, heedless of his protests, her hands gripping his arms. "It was the box of books, wasn't it? Tell me--are you hurt?"

He sat back on his heels, for he was kneeling beside her, and she did not miss his grimace of pain. "I think my back will soon sport an impressive bruise, but nothing is broken." He clutched her to his breast, kissed her neck, her face, her lips. "Thank God you aren't hurt."

"A few bumps--that is all, truly. But you--the box might have struck your head--" Her voice quavered; she could not but recall that his own brother had died in a carriage accident. She clung to him, trembling now with reaction, though she kept her hands fastened to his shoulders so as not to cause him further discomfort. "What is happening outside?"

"They seem to have settled the horses--the chaise has stopped moving. I must see if anyone is injured."

With a last grateful kiss he released her and reached for the door overhead; he moved very slowly, for the twisting motion exacerbated his own injury. But just then the door was flung back and Tim's anxious face appeared above them. "Colonel? Mrs. Brandon? Are ye all right?"

Brandon stood and looked out over the scene. George and the postilion had managed to disentangle and unharness the horses and had removed them a little distance from the havoc they had caused, and Polly was beginning to gather the cases and sacks that had been thrown from the boot and the roof. "Yes, we're only unnerved. What about all of you, and the horses?"

"Polly's got a sprained finger but the rest of us is all right. The horses are settling. One's got a cut leg, bad enough he shouldn't work it for a few days, the p'stillon says. He'll take 'em back to Leek and bring us a fresh team."

"He may need to bring a fresh carriage as well. Send George over to have a look."

As Tim jogged away, the colonel helped Marianne to extricate herself from the chaise, first lifting her to a seat on the outside wall and then climbing down himself to lift her to the ground and steady her, for her legs were wobbly. During these maneuverings he could not silence the hiss of painful effort that escaped his lips, or bring color to a face white with strain.

"You are hurt," Marianne said with a worried frown, "--you cannot deny it. You should rest."

"It's better now that I can stand erect. Please, Marianne, do not distress yourself on my account--though I appreciate that you do." He smiled as he said this last, if weakly, and pressed her hand, and her mind was easier about him as she joined Polly in collecting their scattered luggage, first binding the maid's damaged finger to its sound neighbor so that she should not harm it further.

At this point they were approached by two out-of-breath laborers, who had witnessed the accident from the far end of the field in which they had been working and come running, bringing their hoes and rakes in the event the chaise should need to be shifted from the road. But the horses had done so thorough a job that the chaise was completely in the ditch, and the laborers stood ready to be of what other assistance they could.

George had joined his master and they now determined, to the astonishment of neither, that the rear axle was cracked, having apparently collided with a large stone at an unfortunate angle; one window was also broken into several pieces, but otherwise the chaise looked sound, having rather slid than fallen down the bank once it had tipped over. The laborers here proved their worth, offering the information that "Tom Gunn, he be yer man--got a carpentry shop in Pindleby, yonder two mile" (pointing). Pindleby, they said, did not boast an inn or even a public house, but "Mr. William Moss, at the nearest farm but one to here, he's taken in folk before."

As there was yet no way of speculating how much time repairs to the carriage would require, Brandon sent the postilion back to Leek with the promise of sending for another team in a few days. Then, having obtained directions from the laborers to both Tom Gunn's shop and William Moss's farm, he dispatched Tim to make the necessary arrangements.

There was now little to do but wait, and be thankful that the day was warm and dry. Marianne and Polly used some of George's rags to wipe off cases and clean those items that had spilled into the dirt, while the coachman recounted the whole incident in every lurid detail to the laborers, who displayed no overpowering desire to return to their work. But at last they took themselves off, happy with the shillings Brandon gave them for their information and kind offers of aid. Marianne would have liked to go back into the chaise to make a start on straightening the mess, but she did not want to ask her husband's assistance and she knew he would not delegate the duty to George. He seemed in no humor for Polly's limericks or George's jokes, and tended to avoid the rest of the party, keeping to his feet rather than sitting down with them, and stretching tentatively so that his back would not stiffen; and though he did ask her repeatedly if she was very certain she was unhurt, he would not accept further solicitude from her.

Traffic was sparse on the road, but several farmers and gentlemen did stop to offer assistance, which was turned down with thanks as unnecessary. A mail coach thundered by, at the gallop to make up time and badly overloaded with passengers as they tended to be; Brandon thought it unlikely that it could have been halted safely had the chaise still blocked the road, as the bend just before the causeway would probably have hidden the mishap from the coachman's view. As dusk gathered he laid his sword and pistols across a case where they would be easy to hand, and ordered the ladies into the concealment of a nearby stand of trees; while highwaymen were not as common as in former days they were hardly unknown, and he did not want to advertise that there were women in the party. George never went abroad without a stout stick, and this he fetched from its rest behind his seat. Polly began to wonder aloud "what was slowing Tim," but before Marianne could suggest that he might simply have had to wait for the carpenter to return to his shop or the farmer to come in from his fields, the rattling of an empty wagon was heard and soon the vehicle itself emerged from the twilight, with Tim and a fellow manservant on the seat.

"Tom Gunn be here at first light, sir," Tim reported to the colonel, "and this here's Martin, works for Mr. Moss. And I've got sandwiches for me and George."

Martin hopped down from the wagon and doffed his cap. "Mr. Moss says you're welcome to stay as long as need be, sir."

"That is very kind of your master; I hope we shan't impose upon him for more than a few days."

So many hands made short work of loading the wagon with baggage and everything portable from inside the chaise, and then all but George and Tim, who were to guard the chaise and who were at present exploring the contents of the sack Mrs. Moss had prepared, climbed aboard.

Mr. and Mrs. Moss met the wagon in the yard of a large but unpretentious, well-tended farmhouse. They were a sturdy couple in their middle years, who as they showed their guests into the house offered many effusions of sympathy, which were equaled by the Brandons' many effusions of gratitude. "We'll put you in our bedroom," said Mrs. Moss, "--no, don't say a word against it--as we've a new mattress, and Mr. Moss and I will take our daughter Nell's room, she being married now and living in Ashbourne. We've held dinner for you, and please don't trouble to dress, for you must be half-starved! Mary will show you to the room so you can refresh yourselves, and when you're ready the dining-parlor is just through here--"

While they had been thus pleasantly detained in the hall, Martin and the maids had carried in the luggage, and they found Polly shaking and brushing the wrinkles from Marianne's dresses. "I think the green silk has survived best, ma'am, though the blue an't too bad. The colonel's suits seem all right--"

"Thank you, Polly, but we've been excused from dressing tonight--I think the Mosses are as hungry as we are. Please do see if you can help in the kitchen."

When the maid had left, Marianne got out a clothes brush and made her husband's suit more presentable, using only the lightest touch across his back. He could barely bend over the wash basin and she could not but ask, "Are you certain you do not need an apothecary?"

"I assure you, I am only stiff."

A slight testiness edged his tone, and she vowed she would not ask him again--at least until bedtime. "I want to hold you, but I daren't for fear of hurting you."

This seemed to touch him deeply; he caressed her cheek with his fingertips. "I will cherish the thought. Shall we go?"

"Yes--the sooner we eat the sooner you can rest. Surely they will not expect us to be much interested in company tonight."

This time she knew she did not imagine the brief thinning of his lips, the tightening of his jaw, but he had opened the door and Martin was waiting on the landing to show them in to dinner, and she could not ask for explanation. He must know that he need not fear she would be rude to their hosts, no matter how the evening might drag on, but she could not understand why he might object to her wish that it would not.

Though one daughter might be married there were still a number of young Mosses at home, six or seven at least, ranging from eight to eighteen in age, all exceedingly well-mannered in honor of their guests despite their being the cause of a delay in the meal. They in particular enjoyed hearing of the colonel's army service, a favorite uncle having also chosen that career and being presently posted to Jamaica. Marianne discovered a fellow lover of music in the youngest daughter, aged ten, and promised to help her copy out some of the songs she had brought. She was glad to learn that the modest pianoforte she had glimpsed as she passed the sitting room was no mere pretense to gentility, for she did not want her liking for the Mosses, already warm, to be tarnished by such a common fault. The parents, though obviously proud of their offspring and having encouraged them to be at a respectful ease when talking with their betters, did not allow them to dominate the conversation, and were themselves full of assurances that Tom Gunn would soon put the travellers right. "Folk for miles around get Tom for their carpentering," said Mr. Moss. "He should do a good job on an axle, if not on the finer parts. And you can get that window replaced in Manchester." Their hosts also offered helpful suggestions as to how they might occupy their time in the surrounding countryside, in walks to the local ruins--"from the Romans, they do say"--or perhaps a call on Squire Lloyd out at Chilicombe Lodge--"for he's a genial host if you ever can find him at home."

"With all due respect to your environs, Mr. Moss," said the colonel, "and to the elusive Squire Lloyd, we shall want to be on our way as soon as possible. We had planned to reach Buttermere in another day or two; as you see we have lost a great deal of time."

"We are on our wedding trip," Marianne said brightly. She heard Christopher's indrawn breath, and saw him reach for his wine glass with a serious mien. Did he perhaps consider her remark indiscreet? But Tim had not been told to keep their circumstances to himself--

"Yes, your man did say so," said Mrs. Moss, confirming her suspicion. "Please allow us to wish you joy."

"As much as we've had," her husband added, indicating his large brood with an inclusive waggling of his fingers, whereupon every one of them giggled, the older ones from having some idea of what he meant, the younger ones because they did not want to be thought less knowledgeable than their siblings. "I do think there must be a proverb about a bad wedding trip making a good marriage."

"If there is, you will think of it, my dear. He is so fond of an apt proverb."

"You might enjoy our Polly's limericks, then," Marianne said. "She did help keep my spirits up today."

As the meal progressed, she found herself assuming more and more of her husband's place in the conversation. He had done his best to take an interest in the talk of politics and farming, and his color was good and his hands steady, but his shoulders were unnaturally taut and he did not allow his back to touch the chair. Whether he would admit it or not he was clearly exhausted, and she was glad when after the dessert plates had been removed Mrs. Moss said, "Now, don't think you have to be sociable any longer. Of course we'd be most pleased to have you join us in the sitting room, but I know if I'd had such a fright I'd want to be early to bed."

"You are most understanding," Marianne said quickly, before Christopher could pretend to energy. "I am really very tired, and my husband was in fact slightly injured--"

This disclosure naturally produced more expressions of concern, which the colonel endured with his usual politeness, and offers of sending for the apothecary, which he declined with a look of something like dismay.

At last the good-nights had been said and they escaped to their room. Marianne did not wait to be asked, but positioned herself to help her husband doff his coat and waistcoat. As the alternative was to sleep in his clothing, he accepted this assistance, but refused to allow her to remove his shoes and stockings. While she hung his coat in the wardrobe the Mosses had emptied for them, he slid his feet into his slippers, and was reaching for his dressing gown when she said, "Do you not want me to treat your wound?"

He saw that she had retrieved some liniment and a cloth from the medicine box. "I had intended to read for a while."

There was about him a definite air of resistance. "But I should like to go to bed," Marianne informed him, "and I cannot until you let me treat your wound."

For a moment he made no move to obey, but as she obviously had no intention of relenting, and looked at him in complete expectation of triumph, he surrendered to the inevitable and began to tug his shirt from his breeches. Pride, however, made him say, if a little hesitantly, "I would have preferred that you had not mentioned my injury to the Mosses."

Her sigh was full of regret. "I knew it, ever since I spoke of it. Forgive me--I did not expect it to produce such a reaction." Her expression turned flirtatious. "But now they will not be surprised if you should be unable to leave your bed in the morning--"

He jerked the linen free from its last restraint. "Marianne, please stop this, I beg you. What must I do to convince you that I am fine? All your fussing is entirely unnecessary."

She stood frozen before him, stunned by his rejection. She had intended only playfulness by her teasing exaggeration, but she had obviously erred in her judgment of his mood. "But--is not a wife expected to fuss over her husband?" Confusion, hurt, and impatience all mingled in her voice. "Do you want a wife or don't you, Colonel?"

She had spoken very quietly, but he blinked as if she had shouted--and then enfolded her in a suppliant embrace from which, he was overjoyed to feel, she did not in the slightest pull away. "My dearest Marianne, please forgive me-- How can I be so unappreciative? I suppose it is unreasonable to feel elderly and decrepit as the result of a wife's ministrations. Perhaps I simply don't yet know how to accept being fussed over-- Do I want a wife? Good God--how can you ask such a question?"

After a time, when his lips had at last released hers, she said, "I really did mean only to help."

With reluctance he freed her, and tenderly applied his handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. "Please don't make me feel even more a lout by offering apology yourself."

She had never put down the liniment and cloth, and now, with a smile and a last kiss bestowed upon the tip of his nose, turned him around and completed the exposing of his back, the requirements of the emergency effectively overriding any feelings of immodesty she might have been suffering. But her smile, and any lingering anger and hurt, were forgotten at her first sight of his injury, which brought a gasp and a sob to her lips. Only a bruise, he had said! From a black and purple center where evidently an edge of the box had struck between two ribs, a lighter red and brown discoloration spread as large as her open hand. "Oh, Christopher--it looks dreadful!" She was no longer amazed that he had been out of sorts; with a wound like that she herself would make certain all the world knew her misery.

"I thought it might. I didn't want to worry you further."

"My dear husband, can you really believe you have married such a delicate flower as that? I helped nurse my father, you know, and I have bandaged many of Margaret's scrapes as well as my own. I was only surprised at the sight, as you would be if you could see it. I shall find a second mirror tomorrow and prove it to you--it will look even worse by then. Now please undress and get into bed and let me tend you. I know you are accustomed to taking orders as well as giving them."

He made a noise of disagreement in his throat as he submitted. "Rarely the sort of orders whose object was to ensure my own well-being."

Very gently she applied the liniment, its scent tangy in her nostrils. "Is that better?"

"Actually, it is. Very soothing--"

His words were not quite distinct, and by the time she had shed her own clothing and put on her night-gown he was fast asleep. But he came half-awake when she joined him, and had never held her more tightly than he held her that night.

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

The next morning Marianne awakened alone, and immediately felt a stab of anxiety. Had her husband simply not wanted to disturb her by remaining in the room, or did he suffer renewed resentment? Did he consider her disclosure about his health, mild though it had been, and her persistent attentions to be very great violations of that privacy he guarded so assiduously?

As she washed and dressed her gaze fell repeatedly upon his belongings--razor, shaving soap, tooth-brush and -powder, the shirt that still smelled of liniment--and she hoped he would walk in at any moment; but she was disappointed. As she descended the stairs she listened for his voice, but that hope, too, was unfulfilled. In the kitchen, to which she was led by busy female conversation, she learned that he had eaten an early breakfast with Mr. Moss and gone to see how the carriage fared. With this indication that he would not return very soon, she sent Polly up to tidy the room, and sat down to her own breakfast in the dining-parlor, where Mrs. Moss joined her for a cup of tea.

It was nearly ten o'clock; she was surprised that she had slept so late. Apparently she had needed rest even more than her husband--though he was accustomed to rising earlier than she. She was also surprised at the aching and stiffness that had invaded her every joint and muscle, but she was in no serious discomfort and could enjoy her eggs and ham.

"I do hope you passed a comfortable night," said her hostess. "I wish we could offer you finer accommodation."

"Oh, Mrs. Moss, you have such a comfortable home, and you are so generous to give us your very own room. You must not apologize for anything at all!" Marianne smiled to herself at the thought of what liberal reward these good people would receive from her husband--far more, she was certain, than the cost to them of supporting unexpected guests through a visit of several days. Having noticed quite a few books in the sitting room the evening before, she asked what her hosts liked to read, and there ensued a pleasant exchange on the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and the plays of Shakespeare, though Mrs. Moss confessed that she did not enjoy poetry unless birds were prominently featured, for she was very fond of birds and the poets "did have such a knack of describing their song and all their habits."

Mrs. Moss always turned to her sewing at this time of the morning, the sunlight being very bright in the sitting room, and Marianne went upstairs to fetch the work she had brought with her, several caps and gowns for her first nephew or niece, whose satchel had come through its various travails with only a few grass stains. Polly had straightened the dressing table and was inspecting their clothing to see if any repairs were necessary, and requested some guidance as to what her activities ought to be while in their temporary abode. Marianne was just starting away when from the window she spied Christopher returning along the lane. She could see that he still held his torso carefully, but on the whole his movements were less awkward than they had been the night before, and she was much relieved.

And then as he neared the yard his step slowed. He came to a halt and stood for a moment, seemingly without purpose, without direction. He cast his gaze up toward the window at which she stood--though given the pattern of light and shadow she thought it probable that he could not see her. The distance was too great for her to exactly distinguish his expression, but there was that in the particular tilt of his head, in the sag of his neck when he dropped his gaze to the ground as if strength in those muscles had briefly deserted him, in the rounding of his shoulders as he sat down on the old dry stump of an oak, that suggested both a quandary of some kind and a reluctance to inform her of it. Had his injury in fact worsened? Was the carriage after all beyond repair? Dear Heaven--had Tim and George run afoul of brigands in the night?

But before her vivid imagination could carry her very far down that track, he moved and thus recaptured her full attention, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, fingers interlaced behind his neck. He straightened soon thereafter, and looked toward the house as if bidding himself to enter, but while he had assumed it the posture had spoken to her of utter defeat.

She stood fixed to the carpet, gripped by both a sudden realization and chagrin that it had not gripped her sooner: her husband was deeply troubled, and she had only just now, through happenstance, seen the extent of his distress. The mood had been upon him for days--she perceived it now. It had begun long before the accident; she had been wrong to attribute his uncharacteristic snappishness the night before to so simple a cause as physical pain, though that had undoubtedly been a factor. Those hours in the chaise lacking even wordless communication, those hints of unease in his manner--all had been indications of some weighty preoccupation, and she had not understood their import until this moment.

She knew he would not tell her what disturbed him. She reminded herself now of what she had had some reason during the past few weeks to forget, that though his character was similar to hers, his behavior was very like her sister's: Elinor, too, was inclined to hide or disguise her feelings if displaying them was likely to upset others. Though she and her husband both possessed sensitive natures, where she was open, he was reserved. And just as she had learned to look beneath Elinor's surface calm--seldom, perhaps, with success, but at least she now knew not to assume an understanding of Elinor's deepest feelings based solely on her outward demeanor--she must also learn to read her husband's subtle indicators of mood. He would not readily turn to her for comfort, for he had had little practice or encouragement in seeking solace outside his own heart. His one confidante was in a foreign land, able to judge his state of mind only by what he chose to impart in correspondence. "He will always be scrupulously honest with you," Sarah had written, but, not being acquainted with her brother as a lover, she had not known to offer the further insight that he would not always be forthcoming, that he would not impose his feelings even upon the woman who had pledged to be his helpmate. When she and Elinor could not find common ground they could agree to go their separate ways, but surely if a husband and wife, ideally so intimately concerned in the circumstances of each other's lives, ever once took an initial step along diverging paths, subsequent such steps would be less wrenching, less heartbreaking, and thus more frequent.

Though she could smile at herself for such excessive pessimism, that she could see in one sorrowful moment an unalterable estrangement within a marriage only a few days old, the distress was real and present, and if he would not voice it, she must. He had pledged candor; he would not deny her explanation if she asked. But what would she risk by venturing such a question? Would she learn that he was uncomfortable with their new intimacy? Can our friendship survive our marriage?

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

At the whisper of her skirts across the grass he looked up, and smiled when he saw it was she. Now that she knew to look closely, however, she saw that the smile did not wholly engage his eyes, that it was muted by as yet undefined anxiety.

"Good morning--Mrs. Brandon. Did you sleep well?"

She sat down on the low stone wall surrounding the garden. "I did, sir. And you--are you mending today?"

"I am much improved. I have been out to the carriage--" He proceeded to tell her that Tom Gunn had taken away the damaged axle so as to use it as a pattern to make a new one, that when the repair was complete some laborers and horses would be engaged to right the chaise and it would then be seen what further repairs or adjustments might be necessary. "It is a sad sight, Marianne, I can tell you, the wheels off and the suspension in pieces. Our fine new chaise--"

Now that she knew to listen with attention, she could hear a self-directed wry bitterness, overlain with the tentativeness of wavering confidence. She heard him out with all due politeness, but when he was done she said nothing of axles or suspension in reply. "Please do not pretend to be cheerful, my husband. I saw you from the window."

He met her words with a startled glance toward the house, a sigh of resignation that she had chanced to be in that crucial spot at that one revealing moment.

"Will you not tell me what has upset you?" Her throat tightened on her next words, and it took all her courage to force them out. "Have I--have I offended you?" What else could it be, if he could not tell her? He will always be scrupulously honest--

But he was staring at her, incredulous. "You? Of course you haven't, my--dearest Marianne--" He had been going to say "my love," but he had spoken that most intimate endearment the day before; if she heard it too often it might become intrusive, and therefore unwelcome. "On the contrary, I have thought I have offended you, and that you were simply being generous and forbearing."

It was her turn to gape at him. "Now I am more lost than I was. Whatever makes you believe that you have offended me?"

"The many delays, the constant discomforts; your comments about the lakes receding, and our expenses, and having cause for temper--" At her obvious bewilderment he stopped, and then gave a great sigh. "I have misinterpreted them all, haven't I?"

Earnestly she replied, "If you thought they were complaints, yes, you have--I assure you. The first two were only jests, if poor ones--my attempts to make you laugh, you know--" At once he felt a cold-hearted villain; her remarks had been efforts to cheer him, and he had spurned them. "And by the third I meant only that I sympathized with your frustration--how could I not?"

"My frustration--you do not know my frustration." Had he been trapped into this confession a day or two earlier he might have gotten to his feet to pace, but by now he had passed beyond frustration to weary resignation, all energy for futile anger having been battered out of him. "You might find it difficult to believe, but I have actually organized the efficient movement of companies and regiments and got them to their posts before time. I have supervised the purchase of supplies, hauled cannon through swamps and over mountains--"

"I most certainly do believe it. Christopher, you cannot influence the weather, the roads, or a horse's nerves!"

"I am not so conceited as to believe I can. But--I so wanted everything on our journey to be perfect for you, and when I thought you were disgusted by my ineptitude--"

"Ineptitude! Dearest Christopher, I think you have been splendid. I have been admiring your competence in dealing with all our annoyances. I have long admired your competence, ever since Elinor told me of the much more serious troubles you have faced. You are reliable in a crisis, such as when you brought Mama to Cleveland, and you are reliable every day, as in the responsible management of an estate. I can see that I must teach you not to blame yourself for circumstances entirely beyond your control. And the journey is perfect, for I am with you." She paused for breath, her face flushed with the indignant passion of her speech.

A smile had taken hold of his features, an unfeigned smile of gratitude and relief and astonishment--and a certain consciousness of his own obtuseness. She was not angry or disappointed; not once had she complained. Refreshed by a sound sleep, he had already come to realize that it had been his own fatigue and tension that had made him see in her praise of her maid's good cheer a negative opinion of her husband's aloofness, and in her failure to contradict Mr. Moss's assumption that their wedding trip had so far been a hopeless muddle a disillusionment she would not openly admit. And once Marianne had won the day with regard to the liniment he had also realized that it had been the injury itself, not her worry, that had made him feel feeble. But even earlier in their journey he had allowed his own doubt of her true feelings for him to cause him to be too sensitive, to imagine slights where none really existed. He had always admired her ability to adapt to her family's change of fortune; he should not have assumed that she would react badly to passing inconvenience.

While he had been engaged in these enlightening reflections, she, too, had grown thoughtful. "I can understand, however, how you might have thought I was complaining, because you were already agitated yourself. If I had only seen that you were--but I do not discern the emotions of others very well, especially those of reserved people. Besides, you will always know if I am ever truly upset. I am a great pouter, you know--only ask Elinor. You must take your cue from me. You must learn to rant and gnash your teeth and pull your hair--" She had got him laughing now, and rejoiced to see the light returned to his eyes, the crinkles etched deeply at the corners. "In future I shall guard my remarks more carefully, and you must share your emotions, especially if whatever troubles you has at all to do with me."

"I shall try. I promise you I shall try." He drew a deep breath, and she could see the tension easing from his neck and shoulders. "Burns was correct, it seems--" (and here he actually adopted a Scottish accent!) "'The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley'-- But the next lines do not at all apply."

She had giggled happily at his performance, at his open expression of restored spirits, but now regarded him with a quieter contentment. "No," she agreed, banishing all the poet's dour sentiment from her mind: An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, / For promis'd joy! Notwithstanding their frequent uninhibited conversation as friends, as man and wife they yet had something to learn about true communication; but she had the sense that they had reached a new level of intimacy as a result of this misunderstanding. The day suddenly seemed very bright. She had not before noticed the exuberant reds and purples of peonies and violets in the small garden and the glorious golden profusion of laburnum at the edge of the wood; she had not before heard the trilling chatter of the sparrows and chaffinches, who seemed to express her own rising spirits in song. "You are wearing the waistcoat I made for you."

"So I am--it was rather chilly earlier. It is the best waistcoat I have ever owned."

"It is the best I have ever made." A look passed between them, and they each gave a sigh--and then smiled at the circumstance of so nearly matching each other's mood. The Lakes would still be there a few days hence; their cottage would still await them; the footpaths would still beckon. And then Marianne said, "I have decided to name my horse Penelope. Some might think it an obvious choice, since your horse is called Odysseus, but I would never name a horse without a great deal of consideration."

He was staggered by an inward rush of love for her. That she should choose Penelope, beloved wife of the long-wandering Odysseus, perhaps the finest exemplar in all of literature of marital fidelity and commitment-- His own beloved wife was showing him, in a symbolic way that underscored her straightforward assurances, that her vows to him were unshakable, even by his own insecurities. "Thank you, my Marianne. It is--beyond my ability to express-- I thank you." Suddenly he gave out a low, rich laugh. "It occurs to me that Odysseus, too, was beset with more than his share of travel difficulties." Again their laughter mingled, but presently they were silent, and his look was so intent that she blushed. "There is one very powerful emotion that I should like to share with you just now."

She sat very still with her hands clasped in her lap, but the ardor in her eyes and the trembling of her voice belied her demure posture. "I should like that very much--but I'm afraid Polly is working in our room."

He rubbed his own hands briskly on his thighs and looked about. "It isn't the Lake District, but that looks to be a pretty stream over there, with a pleasant little wood. Perhaps we might find a sheltered ravine--?"

"Yes, perhaps we might."

When she took his arm it seemed as if a current of energy pulsed from one heart to the other through clothing and flesh and bone, heightened emotion leading naturally to heightened sensation. Soon they were within the cool, shadowed privacy of the trees, and might have stayed there even until the ringing of the dinner bell--but that it began to rain!

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

Continue to Mistress of a Family

Home