Mistress of a Family

[Chapters 1-3] [Chapters 4-6] [Chapters 9-10] [Chapters 11-12] [Chapters 13-15]

Chapter Seven

Marianne woke at dawn to John's lusty demands for attention and his mother's vain attempts to quiet him, audible as Polly opened and closed the guest room door to bring the boy's porridge or carry out his linens. After her purging flood of tears she had at last been able to relax enough that needed slumber could overtake her, and she felt somewhat refreshed; but though her determination had strengthened, she really wanted only to remain in bed until her husband drove up the sweep. She would not shrink from her duty, however, from her own tempest; and though it was only half past six she forced herself to put feet to floor, to dress, to go out for a walk in the dewy woods among the glistening spider webs and the golden beech leaves half-hidden by the mist, Tim following at a discreet distance.

The exercise and the landscape renewed her as they always did, and by the time she returned to the house with her shoes and hems soaked through and went upstairs to change, she realized how unreasonable it had been, given her anxiety at the very idea of gazing upon Willoughby's son, to expect to be able to quickly conquer that aversion. Her own stiffness had been most to blame the day before, but Eliza too had obviously suffered nerves even as the cart had come up the drive, and probably on the entire journey that morning. They had done rather well simply to meet and converse in a general atmosphere of cordiality; the first overtures had been made with some degree of success, and today's encounters would no doubt proceed more smoothly.

She lost much of her new confidence and optimism, however, when almost the first words Eliza spoke to her--she not having the benefit of Marianne's ambulatory reflections--were of apology.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brandon. I hope you will forgive us for disturbing you." They had met in the hallway, both on their way to await their breakfast guests, Polly having taken John outside to play. Eliza's brow was creased a little with apprehension.

To her own astonishment Marianne found herself telling one of those polite lies she had always abhorred from Elinor's lips. "Oh, you did not wake me--my condition does not always allow me to sleep well, and I sometimes go for an early walk." She realized as never before that Elinor was not deceiving herself when she asserted that such distortions of truth--for it was true that her condition did at times disrupt her sleep--were usually meant only to spare the listener's feelings.

They had no sooner reached the entry hall when Mrs. Dashwood, Margaret, and Edward were heard chatting amiably in the sweep, and within a very few minutes all five were seated in the dining room around platters of toast and cakes and pots of butter and jam. Rosalind was recovered, the happy grandmother reported, but Elinor had been awake with her very late and was still asleep.

"She hopes, however, that you both will call on her later in the morning," Edward put in, "and if we may we shall all come to dinner."

Marianne really wanted to kiss him, and suspected from his look that he knew it, but she said with admirable steadiness, "You know you are always welcome."

It seemed to her, however, that Eliza did not share her enthusiasm, and gradually it began to penetrate her observation that Edward made Eliza nervous. She had never thought what effect Edward's clerical garb might have on her guest; to her he was her brother first and a clergyman second. But she felt she should have thought about it, should have realized that of course Eliza could not know that Edward was not judgmental, that he knew very well what agony youthful folly could bring in after years. She could say nothing in explanation, could only wish the meal over and Edward, for Eliza's sake, gone to his meeting with some lawyers about a recent bequest to the parish, but she could not but be amused at the notion of her gentle brother inspiring terror in anyone but the inattentive children he chided from the lectern.

Margaret had been admonished severely not to say anything that might embarrass Miss Williams, and had responded with justified indignation that she should be thought so wholly lacking in discretion. She therefore meant nothing at all but simple, friendly curiosity by the question she now asked. "What sort of place do you live in at Oakhill, Miss Williams?"

She meant only was it a house or a school or lodgings; but Eliza's tension caused her to assign it a darker significance and answer somewhat sharply, with a quaver of resentment in her voice. "It is a home kept by a very kind Evangelical lady for young women who have borne children out of wedlock and must learn to support themselves."

There was an awful silence. Eliza's cheeks flamed red and she stared at her empty plate in mute mortification. A lady, of course, if revealing particulars at all, would have said "for young women in my situation." A lady would hardly have blurted such a phrase as "out of wedlock" among a mixed company of near-strangers at the breakfast table!

It was Mrs. Dashwood who spoke first, desiring to smooth over the awkwardness for the sake of the daughter who, though not understanding how, knew she had erred, of the daughter who was sensible that it was her place as hostess to salvage the conversation but who looked desperately toward her mother for aid, and for the poor lost guest who was certain she had now ruined herself equally in their eyes as in the eyes of society. "We have an Evangelical curate and his family in Barton now. Though he does make rather a nuisance of himself with his constant visiting, they are very pleasant people, and their ideas about helping the poor, and Sunday-schools to teach reading, and such like are not as strange or nonsensical as one might think to judge by what one hears--I know you will forgive me, Edward."

"And did you not attend my sermon on tolerance these two Sundays past, Mama?" Edward retorted, with a wink at Margaret, who was immediately cheered.

"Barton is such a pretty place," Mrs. Dashwood went on, when no one else seemed inclined to talk about Evangelicals. "Margaret and I do not think of giving it up entirely, though we do spend a great deal of our time here. I have such plans for our cottage! One of the upstairs rooms will become a library, and I am going to install a water closet. You must come and visit, Miss Williams, with my daughter and Colonel Brandon."

If it were possible, Marianne loved her all the more for her gesture, and Eliza's expressions of gratitude were no less moving for their being scarcely audible.

At last Edward departed for the church, and the ladies withdrew with their work-bags to Marianne's sitting room. John was brought in, and the first reaction from Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret to his appearance, though Marianne had warned them in an undertone, was so marked that she wished for her brother's return, for he had never seen Willoughby and would not be disconcerted. But on the whole Eliza was more at ease in his absence, and she was glad of it. Eliza could not be wholly calm while John was in the room, however, and glanced repeatedly at Marianne as if trying to gauge her mood; but after the initial shock Mrs. Dashwood was warm and Margaret was intrigued, and she could hardly snatch him away. She gained some deliverance, however, when Margaret, a little afraid of making another blunder, took him outside to see the ducks on the pond while Polly prepared a snack for him in the kitchen.

"He will want to stay for half an hour," Eliza said, and sounded relieved by the prospect. "He does love the ducks on the canal through Oakhill. We feed them a little bread every day."

"And what of your neighbors in Oakhill?" asked Mrs. Dashwood. "Are there many Evangelicals? They seem always to form societies to attack some problem or other."

"Yes, ma'am--the vicar and his curate are both staunchly Evangelical, and a number of the villagers are following their lead. There is a reform society that publishes pamphlets against cruel sports and the game laws; an abolition society; a poor relief subscription society; and a prison reform society. The library and musical societies are very active as well, though not so dominated by Evangelical tastes." It was obvious that Eliza found all this activity exciting, and so Marianne was surprised when she added, "Of course, I do not belong to any of them--"

Watching her converse with others, Marianne began to realize, or to articulate what she had noticed the day before, that Eliza tended to retreat from enthusiasm, as though she believed, like the prudish Miss Sherbrooke, that a display of spirit or energy was not in genteel taste, or as though she were almost afraid of her passions, even those that were harmless.

When this understanding burst upon her, she stopped sewing and did not hear anything that was said for nearly a full minute. And why should not Eliza be afraid of her passions? It was her passions, after all, that had led her into disgrace; she was wise to fear them. After her own, partly self-induced illness and despondency, she herself had tried to disdain passion, had turned for a time almost entirely to reason to guide her thoughts and behavior. But her family and the man who would become her husband had not allowed her to alter herself into a completely unrecognizable creature; time had reconciled her to her natural spirits and she had again embraced literature as well as the philosophy and history she had been reading exclusively, had begun again to play romantic concertos rather than always an exacting minuet. She had certainly soon enough given up rising at six every morning! Eliza, too, must learn to accept herself, must learn not to fear her natural passions, even if they had once misled her. Marianne realized that she would cross the boundary between candor and rudeness if she were to address such an intimate subject openly--and thus it was all the more vital that she somehow reveal more of her own spirit, in the hope that Eliza would respond.

When Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret departed, having promised to accompany Elinor on a visit or two, Marianne was called to the guest rooms to approve the sheets the maids and village seamstresses had cut and sewn so very quickly. That done, she returned to the sitting room, and found that Eliza was minding John while Polly attacked the mud his dress had collected at the edge of the pond. The boy was playing on the carpet with a set of wooden letters that Polly had brought out of the nursery, Eliza having been granted free use during their visits of anything that remained within its trunks and shelves.

"Mrs. Brandon, I must say again that it was most kind and generous of you to invite both of us. John is at a difficult age for visiting"--this just as the boy's eye wandered to a little glass bluebird on a table, his hand inevitably following, and Eliza firmly redirected his attention to the appropriate playthings.

Marianne was ashamed that her guest should feel it necessary to compliment her in the hope of assuaging her evident disquiet. A little, or perhaps more than a little, nervous already, how much more shaken must Eliza have been by this chilly reception of her son after the warm notes they had exchanged, Eliza writing to wish Miss Dashwood all happiness in her marriage and to assure her she was marrying quite the finest man on earth, Marianne sending heartfelt thanks for those sentiments. Eliza's letter enclosed with her wedding gift had been more cautious, for by then she had learned of the connection of her cousin's fiancée to Willoughby--and what a cold shock that information must have been to her! But Marianne's reply on that occasion had been no less warm than her earlier correspondence; Eliza could have had no reason to expect anything but a cordial welcome, anything but the healthy sort of nerves borne of wanting to please. He is himself, Christopher had said. She must concentrate on that.

She seated herself in her chair and picked up her sewing, but held it unworked in her lap. "I must confess, Miss Williams, that the resemblance between your son and his father troubles me more than I ever thought it would." Eliza blinked, startled by this sudden openness. "But that is no reflection on John. He's a lovely boy." There, it was said! How proud her husband would be!

Her sentiment was so obviously genuine that Eliza was moved to respond with equally genuine warmth. "Thank you, I do think so." She retrieved John from under a chair. "I have often wished--" She could not finish the sentence, or thought better of it, and ruffled the boy's hair instead, which he thought quite unnecessary.

"That his father could see him?"

"Yes. I hesitated because--well, because--"

"It is no offense to speak of Mr. Willoughby to me, if that eases your mind." Eliza nodded gratefully but said nothing more, and it was up to Marianne to continue the subject now that it was raised. "I know that my husband has told you of my-- I was going to say acquaintance, then paused because it was more than that, but in the most important ways it was perhaps only an acquaintance after all--my acquaintance with him. I waited to invite you until I thought I was quite certain I could look upon you and your son without resentment--not toward yourselves, of course, but toward the past. But time has not made it easier after all, and so I wish now that I had not waited so long."

"It is very kind of you to say so."

"And you--I also thought that it might be difficult for you to meet me." She could hear Elinor's reprimand as if she were in the room. "Forgive me!--I am inclined to be too forward--"

"No--I appreciate that you speak plainly. In truth I have been very nervous, wondering if it would be better after all to go--the circumstances are so awkward for both of us-- Yes, it has been more difficult than I anticipated as well. There was a time when I thought Mr. Willoughby would come back to me when once he knew about John. Even after my cousin informed me that he was courting another young woman in the country, still I believed it. But when we learned of his engagement--my hopes were destroyed."

"As were mine," said Marianne, very softly.

"It has been difficult to meet you because now that I compare your advantages and charms to my own, and realize that still he could give you up, I know that I never had any claim at all on his heart."

Marianne's half-smile was part modest acknowledgment of her compliment--though it also crossed her mind that while she might have the advantage of a legitimate family connection, in the practical terms of monetary fortune that Willoughby most valued it was Eliza who could claim the advantage, for her guardian, now that he was a man of means, intended to provide her a generous marriage portion--and part an indication that she too knew what it was to learn that whatever charms she possessed had been insufficient. "It is a painful realization. And that is not the only pain he caused you."

"I cannot blame him entirely, you know. I received all the usual warnings about predatory young men--from our schoolmistresses, from the vicar, even from one of the housemaids at school who was discharged when it became obvious that she was with child and not even betrothed. My cousin was especially firm in his admonitions, reminding me in letters and when he came to visit me that my position is more precarious than that of other young ladies and so I must take care that my behavior is above reproach. In his letter granting me permission to go to Bath he warned me again! But it all deserted me when I heard Mr. Willoughby's flattery."

By the close of this recitation her words were coming faster and faster and her pleasant voice was hoarse with bitterness and unshed tears, so that she had to compose herself with a deep breath and was glad to find distraction in stopping John from tangling the fringe on a pillow. Polly appeared then, and took her charge back outside to dirty this dress as happily as he had dirtied the other.

"Did he not know the name of your guardian?" Marianne asked when they were alone again, hoping she did not offend. "He had met Colonel Brandon any number of times, though he did not know him well."

Far from being offended, Eliza returned to the subject with an alacrity that surprised even Marianne. "Not at first--though I thought he did. When his attentions to me became marked I thought I should be honest with him, and so I told him of my--my status. As you might imagine, it--it took some--some courage to do so, and when he smiled--he does have a winning smile--and said did I not think that he would make it his business to investigate a young lady who had so--so captivated his attention, and that he thought it cruel to judge a person by the errors of his parents--well, I think I probably fell in love with him at that very moment, for I had always believed that no gentleman would ever consider me as a wife. I assumed then that he had learned who my guardian was, and we spoke no more about it until one day, about two weeks after our first becoming acquainted, I said to him that I was eager to tell my cousin Brandon about him. This was before we had--before I had--taken that irreversible step-- 'Brandon?' he asked, with a little start that I hardly noticed at the time. 'My guardian,' I replied, '--you remember.' 'Oh yes,' said he, with a careless smile, as if to suggest that he had simply forgotten the name--which itself should have struck me as odd, that he should forget the name of my guardian. Such inattention in a lover? But I now believe that that was the first hint he had, for soon thereafter he wanted to hear about my guardian's estate--what were my favorite features, and what did I like to do when I visited--and so he was able to confirm that it was indeed the same Colonel Brandon with whom he was acquainted. 'He does sound a fine gentleman,' he said. 'I shall look forward to meeting him.' Knowing now the dislike he already felt toward my cousin, it is hard not to believe that his determination to--have his way with me was only strengthened by the knowledge of the connection between us."

Marianne's scruples were embattled. She knew she should be disapproving of Eliza's extreme candor, should try to put a stop to it by uttering a dignified comment such as "Please, Miss Williams, for both our sakes, perhaps we should not discuss this matter any further"; but of course the very private nature of these details and their arguable relevance to her own experience only made them all the more alluring. What she said was, "I think it likely. He would not have considered possible consequences, and if he had he would not have cared much for them." He would have believed that Eliza, as a girl of genteel upbringing, would never dare tell her guardian of her fall; but that if she did confess, that guardian would disown her; and that even if he did not he would not take any action against her seducer. How completely he had misjudged the man he had wronged--as had she. How fitting that we should be alike in that.

And he had known whom he had wronged. Until now she had not been certain when Willoughby had learned the identity of Eliza's guardian. She began to revise her opinion of him. She had judged him thoughtless rather than deliberate, but in this case he had clearly not been swept away by irresistible passion. He had intentionally seduced a young woman, powerless already by virtue of her sex and even more so by the stain of her birth. A gentleman would have withdrawn after Eliza's admission. He had willingly proceeded with that seduction even knowing himself acquainted with the young woman's guardian, had then boldly accepted that guardian's hospitality--the proposed outing at Whitwell, arranged by Colonel Brandon at some trouble to himself--while casually denigrating him at every opportunity, enjoying the secret knowledge of the offense he had committed.

With disgust, she said, "And I would have married him had he asked." How fortunate she had been to escape; the more she learned the more it was proven. Her disgust was also directed at herself. She too had insulted her host; she too had been guilty, had allowed Willoughby to encourage the most unappealing aspect of her nature, that which had believed herself superior to others. She felt anew, and most strongly, the injustice she had formerly done her husband.

"Yes, you would have married him before--" Eliza stopped abruptly, at last seeming to feel that she had spoken too freely.

But Marianne did not allow her time for humiliation. "I believe he did not tempt me as he tempted you." What if she had herself come to know Willoughby not in the restrained, supervised circle of family and neighbors but in Bath or in London itself, in a whirl of parties and theater and pleasure gardens with their remote, poorly lighted lanes, with no one but a humorless and intolerant (as she had thought then) sister and an elderly chaperone to protect her? Under those circumstances, to what folly might she have allowed him to lead her?

"That he did not," Eliza said, "is an indication of how differently he thought of us--of you as a lady, and of me--"

"He did promise you marriage," Marianne countered, in an effort to assuage her guilt.

"But what intelligent woman surrenders her virtue in exchange for a promise?" Eliza cried. "Even my friend, who had introduced me to Mr. Willoughby and, I believe, had some idea of his character, did not go so far with her gentleman friend. I knew I was ruined almost as soon as he left me. Something in the manner of his leave-taking warned me, even though he said he went to speak to his relation, wanting, he said, to understand his own position before he spoke to my cousin. 'She is a very strict lady,' he said, 'but for you I would brave harpies, vultures, Medusa herself.'"

Here Marianne recognized the sort of romantic language Willoughby had used in the beginning of her own association with him; but with her he had changed, had grown more serious, coming to regard her with true affection--affection which he had ultimately betrayed.

"But as he stepped into his carriage he said, 'It has been delightful, dear Eliza,' and something in his tone gave me a chill, something in the way the door clicked shut, in the way he did not turn once to look at me as the carriage rolled away--" On her face was an echo of the desolation she must then have felt. "But I did not admit to myself what had happened. I drifted through the days, waiting anxiously for the post, telling myself that he had simply had some difficulty with his cousin and could not think how to tell me. By the time three weeks had passed I was certain that I was--that the worst--and I knew then that he would not return."

"Was your friend any help to you?"

"She helped me arrange my journey to London and gave me most of her pocket money, and I had some remaining from the generous allowance my cousin had sent me for the trip. I was thus able to afford respectable lodgings, recommended to me by a fellow passenger. I did not need to find work--though the days might have passed more swiftly if I had."

"Did you then search for Willoughby?"

"At first I did. I believed--or tried to make myself believe--that could he but be made aware of my predicament, he would want me again, want his child, want to share his home with us. Though he had not given me his direction--adding, when I considered it, yet greater intensity to the cold I seemed always to feel--he had mentioned a few clubs that he frequented. I inquired there, but of course they would tell me nothing. I suppose I could have ascertained how to write to him at his estate; he had not told me its name but I knew it was in Somerset. But I soon lost heart and energy for such a haphazard search for someone who did not want to be found--at least not by me--and I believe at this period my thoughts were never quite clear. When I had at last admitted my loss, I believe I had some idea of remaining in town for my lying-in--depending on the kindness of my landlady far more than was wise or fair--and then leaving the child at a church or foundling hospital and returning to Bath. I cannot imagine why I ever believed that would be any less a scandal, why my guardian would be any less ashamed of me, but it was something like a plan and it kept me sane through the long weeks. I read a great deal, and walked, and stood outside Vauxhall and listened to the orchestras, and thought all the time about my foolishness and dishonor. I was too much alone, and I began to despair. I think I came very near-- But no, I will not say that to you--"

"If you believe I have never known despair," Marianne said quietly, "you are mistaken."

This seemed to touch Eliza deeply. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, and Marianne realized that throughout her long narrative to this point she had not shed one tear, having perhaps already pretty well exhausted all the tears she could devote to this particular misery. "You are so good, Mrs. Brandon, to listen to these outpourings. I never had intention of burdening you-- But it is a great relief-- I could hardly say these things to my cousin Brandon, when he has had to deal with the consequences of my behavior--"

"If I can help you by listening I am glad to do so. I had a mother and sister to listen to me." That very same reserved, too-wise sister had been always by her side, supporting her, strengthening her. "Could you talk to your friend?"

"I wrote to her a few times but did not give her my direction, for I did not want her to inform my cousin. When at last I let him know my whereabouts, he at first forbade any further correspondence between us, for she had been obstinate and unhelpful during his search for me and his anger was still very fresh. That enforced separation gave me time to realize how unhealthy had been our intimacy--she willingly leading me astray and I willingly following--and I lost the desire to resume it."

"What led you finally to contact Colonel Brandon?"

"Terror," Eliza said with a quivering smile. "As my time approached I grew more and more frightened at the prospect of enduring childbirth completely alone, and decided I wanted, needed, his care even at the cost of his disappointment--for I knew he would come, and would not forsake me."

"He started for London the moment he received your letter. It came to him at Barton, on a morning when he was to host an expedition to Whitwell. He would not delay even a few hours."

"I did not know I had so disarranged his plans--he never told me. He looked very tired and severe when he arrived. His step was measured as he came in and he sat rigidly on the sofa. I was desperately glad to see him but so afraid of losing his regard as well as his protection. My handkerchief was damp and wadded beyond recognition. I wondered if he would be sympathetic and forgiving like the fathers in all those sad novels about seduced maidens, or if he would see me through my crisis and then disown me. If I could no longer claim him as a relation, my plight would be hopeless indeed! But the first words past his lips were not censure or recrimination, but comfort. 'All will be well,' he said, and I burst into tears, such hard, tearing sobs that he began to fear I would harm the child or force the birth. He brought me some tea and made me lie down, and then wanted to know my story. At that time I told him very little--I wanted only to pretend it had never happened. Though he pressed me, I would not tell him Mr. Willoughby's name. For days I would not tell him. I do not know why. Perhaps it was pride--I did not want to be thought so trivial and unloved that I must compel a man to marry me. He let me have my way at first, and busied himself arranging for the surgeon and nurses, for I was very near my delivery. That done, he began to ask repeatedly for the name of my--my seducer, and though he would not say it I guessed that he wanted to know in case I did not survive the birth. He is apprehensive about childbirth in general, as I am sure you have discovered, but in my case his fear was justified, for I had not had proper food or rest or ease of mind for the whole of my pregnancy. Should I die, he wanted to know whom to punish. So at last I told him, my strength to resist his importunities having given out--and of course I knew that he would succeed in finding Mr. Willoughby where I had failed, so even after all that time I must have wanted him found. I still remember how his face changed when I said the name; he turned so white I thought he would be ill.

"John was born only three days later. Cousin Brandon saw me through the birth, never leaving the hallway through nearly twenty hours, and it was a great comfort to me to know he was there. When it was clear that I would recover, he sought out Mr. Willoughby. The result of that meeting you must know."

"Yes. He said--it was the cause of some estrangement between you."

Eliza bowed her head. "I was hateful to him. I had no notion that he would go so far as to challenge him--but I have so little understanding of men, and less of soldiers. When he told me what was to occur--he wanted me to know what provisions he had made for John and me--I railed at him, accused him of contemplating murder, begged him not to proceed. And if he were killed, defending my honor--I was consumed with guilt at the thought! My anger was also born of fear--for how should I cope if I were left alone in the world? He bore my fury until I was too spent to say more, and then he kissed my forehead and went away. When it was over he came to me and said, 'Mr. Willoughby has survived.' He was so cold and awful, and I was so relieved for both their sakes, that I flung at him, 'I am glad!'--and that is the last we have spoken of it."

"Willoughby survived," Marianne informed her, "because Colonel Brandon would not murder him. He collapsed in terror and begged for mercy--and was granted it."

"Oh," said Eliza, in the manner of a sigh. "He spared me knowledge of that."

"He tried to spare me, but I insisted. I think it right that you should know as well."

"I was sometimes curious, but did not dare ask him-- Poor Mr. Willoughby--one can almost feel sorry for him--"

"Almost," said Marianne, who in fact felt rather less sorry for him now than she had an hour before. "How long did you remain in London?"

"About two months. Cousin Brandon was tireless on my behalf, though I hardly spoke to him. He was angry at me as well, for naming my son John. But in spite of that he stood godfather for John at his baptism, and he talked to the surgeon about my progress, and sent out inquiries and learned of Mrs. Sutton, and went to interview her and inspect her house, and took us there in his own carriage."

Marianne was fascinated by this glimpse of her husband, in an area of his life about which she would never question him. "He did what needed to be done," she said, remembering how subdued he had been when he visited Mrs. Jennings in London and only now fully understanding why. The usual anxiety for the health of a new mother and child, the new worry about what would become of Eliza, whose future had always been of great concern to him, the pain of the rupture between them and the uncertainty of its ever healing--she admired anew his great capacity for love and duty, and gave thanks that she had matured enough to appreciate him.

"He always does. After I was fully recovered and embarked on my new life, I spent a great deal of time comparing my cousin and Mr. Willoughby. I found Mr. Willoughby rather wanting."

"I did the same! I could point to so many similar instances in which Willoughby had spoken or acted out of selfishness and my husband out of generosity. It makes one feel very small for ever having been attracted by such a man, does it not?"

"Perhaps--but we were both very young, and he so much more experienced."

"The colonel has already announced that he will never allow his daughters out of his sight until they are thirty."

"And I have vowed that my son will not be such a man as his father if there is anything I can do to prevent it. And yet, I still wonder--if he would not be moved to look at John, to see the resemblance between them. Would he not be proud--or at least interested?" She looked at her hands. "It is foolish, I know. But still I wonder."

Marianne leaned forward and said in an exaggerated whisper, "We must never let Willoughby know what a profound effect he has had upon us all. It will go straight to his head!"

For the first time they shared a laugh, and both would probably have said it was only appropriate that their mirth should be at that particular person's expense.

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

Elinor, ready to be comforting and cleverly diverting, was not at all prepared for the sight of Marianne and Eliza chatting gaily in the parsonage lane, and Marianne stooping to set John on his feet again when he tripped over the root of an oak and went sprawling.

"What has happened?" she asked her sister in a low voice, Eliza and John having joined Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret in the parlor. "Mama and Margaret returned this morning with very ominous predictions. How are you and Eliza now so companionable?"

"We talked about Willoughby," Marianne replied, as if that explained all. And perhaps it did, Elinor thought, remembering how much time she and Edward had devoted to an examination of Lucy Steele's actions and motives, allowing her specter to intrude between them with the object of then banishing it together.

On the heels of this oblique reflection upon the strength of her bond with her husband, she was immediately forced to hope that he did not come home very soon, for he would be most discomfited by the subjects that soon dominated the conversation, inevitable among four women when one had recently given birth, one was with child, and two were mothers of varying experience. Marianne complained and worried and was given advice, and Margaret listened with curiosity and alarm, and declared that "she did not ever wish to breed," so unpleasant and inconvenient did it sound, with its sickness and swellings and achings and exhaustion--and they all smiled wisely and made her feel very young and far outside that timeless circle of female experience.

Dinner was the same, Eliza continuing to exhibit the blend of drama and humility that Marianne had begun to see that morning. Following the example that her hostess was now able to set, she was more comfortable even in Edward's presence, though that might have been due rather to his wearing an ordinary brown suit than to any increase in her confidence, and she talked readily about visits to Delaford in former days and how much she looked forward to meeting her Marchbanks cousins.

Again Marianne tumbled into bed very fatigued, but this time happily so. Tomorrow Christopher would be home, and she could tell him how much she liked Eliza, how easily they talked now, their enforced intimacy having made them friends very much faster than in the usual process of becoming acquainted. How awful if he had been with her the previous night!--to be assailed by such a confused outburst of sentiments that were better kept private. Though he might speak of Eliza to his wife he did not inflict upon her the intimate particulars of his old grief. Better that she had not been able to subject him to clumsy attempts to explain her inability to cope with this small but powerful reminder of how foolish she had been--and how much in love. Her feelings for Willoughby had been without foundation, based as they had been on the deceitful image he presented to the world, but they had been real, and it was perhaps only natural that she should feel renewed stirrings of a long-healed regret. Better, however, that that partial resurrection be given no voice, even to stress its ultimate insignificance, to the one who would be most wounded by it. The danger was too great of his reading more into it than it warranted, just as he had assumed painful implications when she had questioned him about the duel. She would have been guilty of taking advantage of his love, of placing him in an intolerable position--for it would have hurt him to listen but also hurt him to deny her. But the very separation that she had lamented and feared had kept him safe. As she had the night before, she murmured his name, this time with a smile into her pillow rather than sobs--for tomorrow night she would be able to murmur it to its owner, would be able to take him in her arms and welcome him home.

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

When breakfast had concluded and no message had yet arrived from her husband, Marianne was able to say to Eliza with some assurance and an inward stir of pleasant anticipation, "I think we shall see Colonel Brandon return today with your cousins. He would have sent word if they had been delayed." She had to stop herself from looking out the window every time cart wheels crunched in the sweep; the chaise could really not be expected until the afternoon.

"He is the most considerate gentleman." Eliza was showing John the pictures of elephants and tigers and cobras in some of the colonel's books about the East Indies, but he broke away frequently to pound a few notes on the pianoforte, which Marianne had opened for him. "Do you know--I used to wish he were my father, but no longer. I would not want to be guilty of disappointing a father as I have disappointed him. He paid for my education even when he had little to spare himself, so that I could make my way in future as a governess or schoolmistress. But now I could never get a respectable post as either, unless I gave up John, which I will never do. --Softly, John! --And when he inherited Delaford, an early concern was to provide a generous portion for me--but who will want it now? I shall probably always be a burden to him."

"But your education will hardly be wasted. You will educate your son, and an education will help to ensure that his birth will be less a hindrance to him. And your manners will also help to make him a place, manners which you would not have but for your schooling."

"Yes, that is all true. I do my best to behave irreproachably, because it is so important to both of us, though I confess it is a strain. I was, if I may say so, especially concerned about impressing you, for I feared Cousin Brandon would think less of me if I offended you. But you are so warm and unpretentious--" Marianne was gratified to hear that her new role had not yet spoiled her. "It is a relief, really," Eliza continued, "to be at Mrs. Sutton's, with others like myself. We understand one another."

"I wonder if you are not perhaps too sensitive?"

"I do not believe so. All of us have been cut now and then--in the shops, on the streets. Everyone in Oakhill knows us, of course. We would be far less conspicuous in a city, but I felt utterly lost in London and wanted only to return to familiar country surroundings, even though they might offer their own difficulties. --John, come and look at this strange animal--it is called a mongoose. --We simply learn to avoid those who do not want us--but that it is a humiliation I will not deny."

"The other young women--are their stories similar to yours?"

"Oh yes--we are all guilty only of foolishly believing in false promises. My cousin would never allow me to live with--with women of that kind, no matter how repentant they might be. He still has hopes of my marrying someday."

"And why should you not? In purely pragmatic terms, you will always be able to depend on the portion he has promised you, and John will never be a financial burden on the man who marries you." Brandon had already invested funds with which to send John to university, purchase a commission or an apprenticeship, or establish him in a business, whichever he seemed best suited for--all those provisions that Willoughby should be making for his son. "And I shall point out--say what you will about my bluntness--that there are natural children of both sexes."

Eliza looked as though she really had not considered that England was scattered with men who would have no just grounds on which to snub her. "That is so." A spark of spirit shone in her eye, the same spirit that would have attracted Willoughby, that enabled her to cope with her present difficulties. "Perhaps I should advertise-- 'Natural sons only need apply'!"

It was while they were caught up in gales of laughter that a figure appeared in the doorway. Between their own chatter and John's vigorous musical accompaniment, they had not heard his approach or the bustle in the hallway that had preceded it. "As the servants have all converged upon the carriage," he said, when their merriment had subsided a little, "I come to announce myself."

"Christopher!"

This time it was Eliza who held back, looking on with some wistfulness as Marianne jumped up from her chair, casting her sewing anywhere, and sprang forward to clasp her husband's hands and press them to her lips. "You are so much earlier than we expected. I am so glad to see you!" And indeed she fairly glowed as she looked at him, and he gazed down in wonder upon a smile as radiant as any he had ever seen her give to Willoughby, as well as a promise in her eyes that stole his breath away, of a more abandoned welcome when they should be alone.

And to hear laughter from Eliza, when her spirits had been low for so long!--she and Marianne sharing genuine mirth was the last sight he had expected to meet his eyes as he came into the house, dreading not only continued awkwardness between them but also some resentment toward himself. He greeted Eliza with delight and affection, and called out a hello to John, who was much too busy hiding behind the draperies to pay him any mind. While Eliza flushed her son from cover, Marianne, still with a tight grasp on her husband's hands, began to ask about Sarah and the children.

"They are well, though tired. We reached Honiton yesterday, and so did not have far to come this morning. Sarah is directing the removal of the luggage--"

"No, she is not," said his sister from behind him in the hallway. "I could not wait a moment longer. Hello, my dear--it is such a pleasure to meet you at last."

Though Marianne, in her anxiety about meeting Eliza, had had no time to be anxious about meeting Sarah, she would by this time really have been very little troubled, for she felt that she and her new sister had already reached a certain level of familiarity in their correspondence throughout the summer. In minutes they had agreed to call each other by their Christian names, and were conversing as eagerly as if resuming an old friendship rather than beginning a new one.

"Your sister captured you very well," Sarah pronounced, "though I believe you do look more composed and certain of yourself than in her sketch. And you, dear Eliza--" turning with her hands outstretched "--you have grown up to look even more like your mother than you did as a little girl." She and her brother regarded Eliza with tenderness and regret, remembering long-ago innocent days before the hard world had intruded. "And here is little John--tell me, are you going to call your second son Robin? What a handsome lad you are!" She picked him up but almost immediately was forced to put him down again. "And a wriggle-worm, too, I see! My boys were the same. They are already exploring your stables, Christopher--you will never keep them away--you might as well let them sleep in the straw under horse blankets."

"I shall ask George to spruce up one of the empty stalls--"

As the servants were now carrying in the cases and trunks, the next little while was taken up with settling the new arrivals in the guest rooms and nursery. A note from Marianne brought the parsonage denizens up to the manor house, and the afternoon passed very pleasantly in a family party, everybody being actually as delighted to meet everybody else as they professed to be. John and Louise studied each other but were slow to make any friendly advance, she being less accustomed than he to other young children and more comfortable in her mother's arms, and he being too much occupied trying to open the pianoforte so that he might charm them all with his talent. Margaret enjoyed acting the lady with Philippe and Christophe--a role she would throw off as soon as an opportunity presented itself to demonstrate her equestrian expertise. They too set out to impress and behaved in very gentlemanlike fashion, despite the bits of hay clinging to their suits.

Marianne and Eliza were especially easy together, cooing over Rosalind and Marie and recommending novels to each other. Observing them, Sarah said softly to her brother, "I am sorry to have to tell you, my dear, but I do not think they needed you at all."

He smiled at her over his tea, for he had noticed as well and was glad that the scene he had witnessed earlier had apparently become the normal state of affairs. "Perhaps I simply misread the situation--"

"No, you did not," Marianne said to him later, as they talked into the night following a proper reunion, warm in each other's arms. "That first day was horrible, so stiff and unpleasant, and the fault was mine because I could not separate poor little John from his father. But yesterday I made myself confront my reluctance and brought up the subject of Willoughby, and Eliza seemed really eager to talk about her experience."

"I can tell already how greatly you have helped her. I have not seen her so cheerful since before she ever knew Willoughby, before her sweet eagerness was defeated by her ordeal-- It was very generous of you to sacrifice your own privacy for her sake. I cannot thank you enough."

"If I have helped her I am glad. Sometimes simply talking about a problem can ease it a little."

"We never could manage it. She was frightened and ashamed, and I was disappointed and worried. All I could think of was watching her mother die, ruined because of her sin. I was terrified that Beth's own despair would drive her down the same path--but she is stronger than Eliza."

"You must not think I mean to criticize you! She could never have talked with you the way she could with another woman, especially one who could understand at least something of what she felt. --I like her very much. She is lively and passionate and interesting--but a little indiscreet and thoughtless. Having once been very like her, I can easily understand how she might have been swept up in the emotion of the moment and simply not considered consequences. I like the way she speaks--she is very dramatic, as I imagine actresses must be."

He looked at her with surprise. "She has not been so with me for a long while, not since she begged me--'with all her heart and soul,' she wrote--to allow her to go to Bath. I should have been less susceptible."

"She says you warned her most carefully and frequently--that the blame for succumbing is all her own." He made a sound of disagreement in his throat, but then kissed her for her effort. Though he might blame himself in no small measure for Eliza's situation, it mattered greatly to him that Marianne did not. "Christopher--I told her what you told me of the duel."

She felt him start against her. "Did she ask you?"

"No--she said you had not discussed it. But I thought she should know."

"It was difficult to know what to tell her, what she would listen to, or believe--what she should be burdened with at such a time." He sighed. "And having had to let Willoughby walk away from me unpunished-- I confess I was in no state of mind to revisit it."

"I thought--I thought perhaps it would help her let go the hope that he will ever have the courage to acknowledge John, to show any interest in him at all, or in herself. There was a time when I wanted to confront him, to make him explain to me how he could have done what he did. But as the months passed I really came not to care; he was not worth such constant thought. I was ready to go forward. Eliza must find a way to do that as well."

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

Chapter Eight

The next morning was spent by the ladies in quiet pursuits. The post brought to Sarah a letter from Mrs. MacIntyre, welcoming the family home and laying out the plans for the workmen, and providing a long list of items her mistress might choose to purchase in Exeter before her relocation to the less abundantly supplied Whitwell; an expedition to that town was immediately planned for the day before Eliza was to depart. While Marianne worked on her accounts and Eliza her sewing, Sarah filled several pages to Claude, telling him in greater detail about their journey and the health of the children than in her hasty letter from Plymouth--by a ship departing almost the minute they themselves had landed--and in what happy spirits she had found her brother and his wife.

Marianne was disappointed to see so little of her husband that day, but he had promised to meet with a tenant who had proposed the taking over of some marginal land at a greatly reduced rent for the purpose of installing some ingenious drains and testing their effects, and the two men with Baynes were closeted in the steward's office with diagrams and estate maps and agricultural treatises for much of the morning, emerging with satisfied expressions about one o'clock to ride over to look at the site. But as they dressed for dinner his attention was all her own; they drifted back and forth from one dressing room to the other while arranging petticoats or buttoning breeches, talking of the period of their separation, each intensely interested in the minutest of details simply because the other had experienced them.

During the meal and the late conversation afterward in the sitting room, however, their attention was riveted naturally upon Sarah and her sons, whose audience also included the usual four from the parsonage; and the hurried manner of the maids bringing in the dumb-waiter suggested that they were eager to return to a similar story unfolding from Madeleine in the nursery.

"Our friend's export business has been all but ruined by the blockade," said Sarah, the primary narrator, "as have so many other trading enterprises out of Marseilles and Toulon. Those cities have always been centers of counter-revolution, for war is very bad for business, and finally we decided to take advantage of the passage our friend had long been offering us. He has made a pretty sum over the years transporting émigrés. From Marseilles we travelled along the coast--"

"And the first mate let us look through his glass at a British ship he spied on the horizon!" said Philippe excitedly to Margaret, being clearly of the opinion that his mother's narration lacked verve. He lowered his voice, attempting a theatrical menace. "He said their first mate was probably looking right back at us!" Margaret, however, having frequently been regaled with her brother's dramatic tales of army life, of enemies positioned so near he could smell what they were cooking for supper, was not impressed.

"Near the Spanish border," continued Sarah, "we pulled away from the coast and made for Minorca under a flag of truce. We were stopped by a very imposing ship--"

"She had forty-four guns--I counted!" (from Christophe).

"--but when the captain understood that the cargo consisted entirely of émigrés he let us pass, and we spent two weeks in Mahon with friends who had settled there. We intended to wait for Claude, but he sent word that he would be delayed, and that we should take the next ship we could to England."

"Christophe and I explored the entire fortification--as much as we were allowed, I mean, which was not actually very much--but we climbed the towers with an officer who was a friend of our captain's and looked out over the sea--"

"Toward home," said Christopher, briefly crestfallen, and there was a silence around the table, broken by the boy himself. "Mama was very brave," he said, and she rested her hand on his, but only for a moment so as not to embarrass him more than he had already embarrassed himself.

"I believe you all have been very brave," Eliza declared. "I should have been frightened to death."

"What made you decide to come now, if I may ask? It is my understanding that the situation in France is much calmer now since Bonaparte has come to power."

At Edward's question and observation Sarah gave a sigh. "Yes, it is. But even if those who are talking so stupidly now in Avignon about revolt can be made to see reason, we are simply tired. Tired of tension, of war, of worry. Bonaparte promised peace and order, but his 'order' is in fact repression, and within only months he had invaded Austria. There seems no end to his ambition. He wants to be not merely a military dictator but a king, and he has the ability and power to become one. But if France is to return to monarchy, then what has France gained from so many years of chaos?"

"Could a revolution happen here as well?" Margaret asked.

"Not now," Brandon answered her. "Our tradition of liberty for all men is very strong and so our society is more stable than that of France had become. And Mr. Pitt's legislation has virtually silenced those misguided few who wanted to follow the French example." His interest in happenings within France was professional as well as personal. He had been involved in the organizing and supplying of General Abercromby's army that had attempted invasion from Holland the summer before--an unpleasant position to be in, torn between desire for success and concern for his family should they be caught up in the fighting, a southern offensive also being hoped for. He was as well-informed as an Englishman could be who was not himself a diplomat or politician, following Parliamentary debates in the papers and questioning every émigré priest and soldier and merchant he met in London in search of insights that could develop only from close observation. "And remember the treasonous rebellion in Ireland two years ago--how quickly and thoroughly that was crushed. You may sleep sweetly, my dear Miss Dashwood, with such competent soldiers to protect you." She rewarded his teasing boast with a pert smile.

"Besides," Edward offered dryly, "we got regicide out of our system some time ago."

"And thank Heaven for that," was the fervent comment of Mrs. Dashwood, who well remembered the newspapers bordered in black, the theaters closed for three days, the general wearing of mourning following the French king's murder. "I would not want to raise a family in such an atmosphere."

"That is another reason we have left, of course," said Sarah. "Bonaparte has already betrayed many of the principles of the Revolution. We did not want our sons to fight for his government; his grasping expansion, apart from the moral wrong, drains resources from a country that cannot spare them. But conscription would be difficult to evade." She smiled at each of her sons in turn. "I suppose for all our love of France we are English enough to want a little stability."

When the boys had gone reluctantly to bed and Mrs. Dashwood, pleading fatigue herself, had taken Margaret, equally unwilling, back to the parsonage, Sarah could be more free in her descriptions of insurrections and reprisals, of terror and subjugation and the incessant seesaw of Avignon politics that made a modest country estate a very insecure haven. Brandon asked her if she were weary of talking, distressed by reliving the turmoil, but she replied that she had not spoken with complete freedom on political matters except to her own husband for ten years--indeed, her letters to her brother had always been very discreet--and the relief was so welcome she did not want to give it up until they fell asleep in their chairs while listening to her.

"I really do not know how you have borne it," said Elinor. "To have always to be careful what one says and to whom one says it, with the consequences so severe if one makes a misstep--"

"Well at first it was quite peaceful, you know, disorganized but not violent, and really so many aspects of government did need changing. And the '80s were very exciting, with all the new ideas, so much energy, new opportunities for women to be heard and take part. But then the republicans wanted France to annex Avignon and the papists resisted, and Marseilles sent armies against the city, and all of that was quite bloody and frightening. And then those madmen got into power in Paris and the anti-Jacobin Federalists rose in the south, and the Convention sent a guillotine into the square at Avignon. It was on wheels--I thought it somehow more horrible to treat it like any other tool, like a portable drill, or a loom--"

"Did you know anyone who--?" Marianne could not finish her question.

"Oh yes," Sarah replied, not without some strain. "Several of our friends tried to drag us into Federalism, and we broke with them at once, though in truth our sympathies did lie in that direction. It was simply safer not to be political. We were very fortunate in that our neighborhood saw little actual fighting, but we brought at least part of our good fortune to ourselves by remaining aloof. We were proved right when the tribunal handed down the sentences of execution."

"Why did you not leave then?"

Sarah seemed to glance at her brother before she replied. "For quite a long time I was very ill with fever after a stillbirth." Marianne cast her eyes briefly to her hands folded protectively over her abdomen. Her husband did not look at her but for an instant his face set with worry. He said nothing, however, but merely sipped his coffee. "I have always had troublesome pregnancies and deliveries--please forgive my speaking so bluntly, but these are not delicate subjects we have been considering all evening, are they?--and that time it was a strange sort of blessing. Had I not been too ill to travel, we might have fled and thus lost our lands and perhaps our lives, for the laws against émigrés were harsh then, and ever-changing. First one was in violation if one left, then if one returned, then if one did not return. We were already in the habit of keeping papers and witnesses ready to prove we had never left, in case our names appeared on the lists, as the names of those who had not left often did. But at this time Claude was so anxious about me he hardly knew there was a revolution, and was able to plead genuine ignorance of whatever he was accused of."

Eliza gasped softly, her eyes widening. "And was he accused?"

"Yes, of being a Federalist. But he was able to produce statements enough from friends and administrators that he was not charged. Some of them were later--" She had paled a little. "He faced that crisis alone. I was no use to him then."

"But all turned out well," said her brother gently.

"Yes. Yes." She drew a deep breath and visibly forced memory aside. "It was very much worse in Toulon and Marseilles than it was for us--thousands upon thousands fled. Lyons was a horror; some two thousand people were executed there. --But then the situation improved, you see. Robespierre fell and something like calm was restored, and by the time I was recovered there was not the impetus to flee."

"We are very insulated here." Marianne spoke almost in a whisper. "We really have no idea--"

"No," Brandon agreed. "I remember debating the anti-sedition laws with friends. They called them Mr. Pitt's 'reign of terror,' and I often thought that they should be taken to France to experience a true reign of terror before they made such hyperbolical and ridiculous pronouncements."

But Marianne was thinking of the issue in terms much more personal. When Sarah spoke of her sickening anxiety if Claude was late returning from town, of seeing smoke from a burning chateau on the horizon, of keeping the boys always within sight of the house, she could imagine, or nearly imagine, what it would be to have a soldier husband on active field duty, to live with the constant risk of losing him. She could imagine a ceaseless agony of mind and spirit, a continual alarm, and though she could appreciate that a marriage might be strengthened by hardship, by husband and wife facing emergency together, she was grateful that Sarah would soon be reunited with her husband in safety, grateful to be able to turn her head and see her own husband at her side.

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

It was not until the following morning that Marianne at last found herself alone with Sarah, the colonel having taken his nephews out shooting and then, with Baynes, to the stock day at the Delaford fair, and Eliza being occupied in reading to John for as long as he would sit still to listen. She was in the still-room preparing a receipt of her mother's special cold remedy to send to an ailing tenant, when Sarah appeared at the door with an offer of assistance, having finished her daily letter to her husband after sleeping quite late, an indulgence perfectly understandable after so many days of exertion and tension. With thanks Marianne handed her a mortar and pestle and a bowl of ammonia salt.

"I am so glad you have come back to England. Christopher has been worried about you ever since I have known him."

"He has been trying to get us to come 'home,' as he says, ever since the Revolution began. But France is home to me now. The countryside, I mean--I am not fond of Paris; it is too big and too dirty, like London. I told him he would have to help us learn to be English again. I cannot imagine having no political societies!"

Marianne smiled. "He says that if the radicals need a mob to disseminate their ideas he is happy to refuse them licenses for their meetings--though crowds of fifty or more are hardly a frequent occurrence in Delaford."

"A Frenchman would hardly consider only fifty people a mob! But in a country that calls a half-dozen demonstrators a riot, one should not be surprised by such an attitude."

"Even if it is unreasonable," Marianne said, in a tone that did not necessarily concede, "the law cannot tell us what we may discuss over the dinner table. Some of our neighbors are very political indeed. Mr. Wilverton intends to stand at the next election, and is always courting Christopher's vote and influence. Do not lose all hope of political debate now that you are home."

"Well then, I shall simply have to institute the first salon in Whitwell--though I shall call it my weekly tea-party!"

To Marianne, Sarah herself was an intriguing mixture of the familiar and the foreign, her opinions and manners formed in two cultures, for she had lived in France fully half her life and had not set foot in her native land for eleven years. She was freer of expression and more exuberant in wit than most women--or men--of Marianne's acquaintance; her overall bearing was less constrained, and certainly she seemed to think no subject unfit for ladies' conversation. The difference was not more apparent than in her attitude toward Eliza, now being chased about the lawn by her energetic son. Marianne laughed to see them, and envisioned similar activity with her own child, for whose appearance she grew more eager every day. Would he resemble herself or Christopher? Whose temperament and tastes would he share? Could they save him from repeating their own mistakes?

"I want to thank you, Sarah, for being so understanding about Eliza. Your sons as well--they have been so kind to her, playing with John just as they play with Louise. I know she is family, but her situation--"

"Pish, my dear--we are French, after all! Some of our acquaintances thought Claude and I were quite eccentric not to have several lovers apiece and dozens of stray children littered about. It is simply scandalous what they get up to, but quite charming sometimes how cheerful they are about it. Wait until Claude returns and we have a ball on a Sunday. Do you suppose anyone will attend?"

Marianne's eyes danced. "No one would forego it, if only for the purpose of talking afterward about how indecent it was."

"Perfect--do say you will come!"

Sarah had certainly imbibed many of the ideas of the French "century of light," as had so many of her English countrymen. She spoke highly, for example, of Mr. Rousseau's theories of a natural education, the question of her sons' schooling being brought up at dinner that night by their uncle.

"I have followed many of Mr. Rousseau's recommendations with Philippe and Christophe--though I have tempered them with a helping of Mr. Locke's rational contemplation--and more often than not they do seem to be a credit to my efforts."

The objects of this discussion rolled their eyes and nudged each other under the table in cheerful scorn of the effort required to turn them into civilized human beings. "I beg to differ," said their uncle gravely. "I believe they are the most unpromising specimens of young manhood I have ever had the misfortune to meet. I despair of them utterly." The boys greeted this irreverent pronouncement with all the seriousness it was due, and kicked each other even harder.

Sharing their giggles, Marianne wondered which side of himself her husband would show most often to his own sons--this fond jester, or the disciplinarian who insisted that Philippe and Christophe read for an hour after dinner in the library since they had not done so that afternoon as their mother had instructed them, spending the time playing dominoes instead. Clearly he was more comfortable with children who had reached the age of reason, sturdy creatures who were not so fragile and helpless as were babies. Elinor, for one, predicted that he would be the stricter and more observant parent, but also the more doting. Edward was now asserting the dangers of sending boys away to school rather than educating them at home, citing the usual lack of supervision that could allow a young man to get himself into various scrapes. He colored a little here, thinking of Lucy Steele though he really had intended his comment to have a broader application, but his host prevented any awkward pause by agreeing with him and offering the evidence of several of the neighborhood boys who had grown quite wild as a result of spending so much of the year away from their parents' watchful gazes. "Though, of course," he admitted, "a boy is far better off being separated from too-indulgent parents. If your offspring persist in their barbarity, Sarah, you will simply be forced to send them to Mr. Dawson's academy in Exeter."

"Oh, I have met Mr. Dawson," said Edward, ominously. "He requires ten pages of Greek and Latin translation a day, chemical experiments that smell bad and blow things up, and he locks rogue boys like you two in his cellar."

"No doubt feeding them on bread and water through a knot-hole."

"Exactly so. A terrifying man."

This combined, perfectly straight-faced assault drove Philippe and Christophe into new heights of hilarity, and it was some minutes before the table quieted enough to allow Elinor to ask, "And what are your plans for your daughters, Mrs. Marchbanks? I know it is early to surround our Rosalind with schoolbooks, but we have been discussing the various avenues open to us. My sisters and I were all educated at home, but I do see the benefit for a parson's daughter of some attendance, at least, at a day school. She will be called upon to assist me in sick-visiting and so forth; would it not be useful for her to mix a little with other girls of the parish?" She had discussed the issue also with Marianne but not so much with Colonel Brandon, his views on the evils of sending girls to school being already well known to her. He would have overseen Eliza's education himself had his circumstances permitted, and his failure to safeguard her would be a sorrow for him all his life. She was sincerely sympathetic, but she also realized that on this subject his was not the most rational judgment she might find.

"I believe she would set a good example for them," Sarah replied. "You will expect a higher level of performance from her than will less-educated parents, and she will then raise the standard of performance in the schoolroom. I do differ with Mr. Rousseau on his views about the education of girls. He believes that a woman's virtues are practical rather than intellectual, but I am for a more equal education of the two sexes. After all, if a woman is expected to be a hostess for her husband she should have something to talk about, should she not? Teach a young lady to sew and to paint, of course, but teach her also in subjects that will yield substantive conversation. Our travelling friends often exclaimed over English gentlemen drinking and talking politics in the dining room instead of enjoying the company of their ladies after dinner. Perhaps they find their ladies too dull to want to do otherwise. And if a higher level of discourse among women does not lure the gentlemen into the drawing room, it will at least give the ladies something besides their gowns and the weather to talk about while their husbands are avoiding them--not that I observe much evidence of that habit in this house." Fond glances passed between the two husbands present and their wives. "Of course the same objections apply to schools for girls as to those for boys. Young ladies, too, can fall under pernicious influence--"

This time Brandon, having just taken a bite of plum pudding, could not deflect disaster, and Marianne, not knowing on whose behalf to feel the most miserable--Sarah, her husband, or Eliza, toward whom all eyes were turning--could not settle on which diversionary comment would be of most use. But just as Sarah drew breath to offer apology, Eliza herself intervened.

"If the young lady follows the better judgment that has been instilled in her by her guardians, then she will not be swayed from what is right." And at the look that passed between Eliza and the colonel, Marianne's heart swelled so for him that she could not have spoken if she had wanted to.

Philippe and Christophe, however, possessing the usual sensitivity of adolescents of their sex, chose that moment to explode into laughter that despite their best efforts they could not suppress, having been whispering to each other upon some subject or other that was, to judge from the shade of red that reached to the roots of their hair, not fit for polite company. Their mother only smiled, understanding that their raucous mood was simply the natural outgrowth of relief after too many weeks of grim and necessary self-control, exacerbated today by several hours at the fair running from sheep to horses to cattle and looking over the latest in farming equipment, and eating a very great quantity of sweets. There was no settling them just now, and everyone knew it. "I for one will be happy to keep my sons at home, for they will be grown and gone away all too soon. --But I think tomorrow we shall seat you across from each other rather than side by side."

Brandon and Edward exchanged a long-suffering glance across the table. "I shall fetch the key to the cellar," said the former.

"And I shall bring the bread and water--"

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

Continue to Chapters 9-10

Home