Mistress of a Family

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Chapter Eleven

Sarah and the children returned in the second week of December, Philippe and Christophe claiming to have grown even during this brief absence and Louise and Marie having certainly done so. They would stay through the New Year, and had come so early in the season because the work at Whitwell had been interrupted by several setbacks, caused, predictably, by a general disorganization among the workmen.

"I had forgotten how cold and damp the winter is here," Sarah complained, when asked how they were adjusting to being English. "We are all accustomed to sun! My nose will not stop running, and I shall be hopelessly rheumatic by Christmas!" She sat nearest the fire, and wanted her tea and coffee almost scalding hot.

"And have you yet had time to meet very many of your neighbors?" asked Marianne.

"Enough of them that I am certain they all think me coarse and uninhibited," her sister replied with a laugh. "The French are very talkative, you know, with a tendency to gesticulate" (a wild waving of her arms for the purpose of illustration), "and I suppose I have adopted some of their manner. When I am in company I begin to realize that they are staring dazedly at me and that I have been dominating the conversation. Philippe and Christophe do not seem to provoke the same reaction; boys, evidently, are expected to be loud."

"Remember it was your intention to shock them," Marianne pointed out. "Perhaps you are succeeding!"

"Well, they will think me an angel when Monsieur Dupuy arrives. Monsieur Dupuy," she explained very grandly, "is a French cook. He is at present at an estate in Kent, but he will give up his place there for the modest considerations of--you will see the lengths to which I will go--a starting inducement of ten pounds, the promise of a rise in salary after six months of mutual satisfaction, and specified modifications to the Whitwell kitchen!"

"My dear Sarah, you will bankrupt your husband!" her brother expostulated, his features struggling between dismay and amusement. "After all your concessions you had better contract with him for not one day less than two years. But I am glad you have located this paragon, for while you are here you will be served nothing but charred mutton and cabbage boiled into mush."

She laughed. "At least you do not consume the entire sheep at a single meal. I am amazed at the quantities my neighbors eat and drink--the English should not wonder that they are all fat and gouty. But the two of you are so abstemious you could be French. I am glad you follow my advice to be moderate in your habits." She herself had kept her figure despite middle-age and her numerous pregnancies.

"Moderation was good enough for the ancient Greeks. Besides, any inclination to gluttony I might once have had was stifled by years of subaltern's rations. I learned to be satisfied with moderation."

Marianne pointed out, with logic but not a great deal of sympathy, "If so many did not have gout, Bath would lure a much smaller clientele and thus offer fewer amenities."

"That is true," Sarah agreed. "Oh! Have you heard that Madame d'Aulan will perform there this winter? Claude and I travelled to see her in Marseilles before she fled the Terror. She was magnificent, and is said to be still in good voice."

"Yes, we are planning to go to hear her in the new year--"

Until their journey to Bath, however, George and his fiddle were their music, and were summoned almost nightly to the drawing room, to be sometimes accompanied by his mistress on the pianoforte; but the coachman did not mind, for his master was always generous with his shillings for such extra service. Edward and Elinor often joined the family party; and by the middle of the month Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had come from Barton, having remained there long enough to attend the Middletons' annual Christmas ball. This time they stayed at the manor house, willingly adding their voices and their feet to the frequent singing and dancing. Philippe and Christophe would dance only with Margaret, but their host danced with all the ladies, even with little Louise, teaching her a few steps as she clung for balance with her whole hand to two of his fingers.

"You look expansive and benevolent," said his wife, "though to really carry it off you should be rotund, and your cheeks flushed with good wine."

He laughed as he surveyed the revelry with a bright, proud eye. "Perhaps I should aspire to become like my great-great-grandfather William, portly and tippling and gouty, who presided over balls and dinner parties from a divan, and died at ninety much beloved, it was said, by all who knew him." She rejoiced in his high spirits, and reflected upon how solitary his life had long been. As if reading her thoughts, he added, "Delaford has not welcomed so many guests at Christmas for years. And to have Sarah and her family only a few hours' drive away--I can hardly credit it! If these are the pleasures deriving from being head of this family, I believe I shall finally learn to enjoy it."

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Being head of the family also carried a certain responsibility, and in the absence of their father Brandon felt it incumbent upon him to continue Claude's instruction of his sons in the duties they would face not very many years hence. In addition to their more leisurely pursuits of fishing and shooting and galloping about with Margaret, he insisted that they ride with him over the home farm and the estate, that they accompany him to a demonstration of a new threshing machine that Mr. Wilverton had arranged at Wilverton Hall, and to see Mr. Increase Jones's progress with the new drains. Not surprisingly, Philippe and Christophe did not find drains a very compelling subject for study, and protested that their stewards would always see to such mundane details. "But how will you know that your steward is competent if you do not understand these mundane details yourselves?" their uncle countered, and from their groans he knew that they had heard the same argument numerous times from their father. Both yet believed that La Tonnelle would fall to Philippe and Whitwell to Christophe, and he urged their mother to set them right. But she wanted to wait for Claude's arrival so that he could explain the arrangements he had made. "And it is always possible that the sale will not be completed," she pointed out, "and then I will have upset them without cause, after so much upheaval in their lives already." Marianne, too, provided her share of instruction, taking the boys with her on several visits, for they must know what the lady of an English manor was expected to do, and what they must do themselves until they had wives to do it on their behalf. Brandon himself had often visited his tenants who were sick or infirm--a compassionate and interested gesture of which his father and brother could rarely have been accused; during their tenures a given tenant might not have been visited at all unless his rent were in arrears.

Soon the balls of the season began in earnest, at Wilverton Hall and Marchley, at Ledford Grange and Heathercote and every other notable house in the neighborhood--each busier, noisier, and more bounteous than the last for having taken account of and improved upon all that had gone before. Marianne had been dismayed to learn, upon assuming her new situation at Delaford, that the married ladies of the neighborhood did not often attend a ball unless they were burdened with marriageable daughters, and that if they did attend it was their habit to dance only two or three dances and then retire to the card room. She herself had defied this practice from her first appearance; having only recently discovered the pleasure of dancing with her husband she had no intention of giving it up, and though she might be soon a mother she was yet too young to consider herself matronly. "I believe it is quite irrational for married women to give up music and dancing," she declared. "Marriage should be a beginning, not an end; a threshold, not a wall!" Since her arrival she had never avoided a ball, and had danced with her own husband for the greater portions of them. Observing with proud amusement that this season some of the other young matrons were emulating her, she now began to see how well her new influence might be wielded in a cause of which she approved. "You will soon erect a shrine to dead leaves," Edward teased her, "and organize long walks in the rain. If you could only carry your pianoforte, the children would trail behind you spellbound, as they did behind the Pied Piper of Hamelin."

"You have convinced me that I must learn a new instrument--"

Delaford, too, gave a ball, to which came from St. Ives, to Sarah's infinite and oft-expressed delight, the jovial Sergeant Jonah Masters, upon whom she could at last bestow her warmest gratitude for the service he had rendered her brother so many years before. Masters brought with him his two eldest nephews--and a wife!--and how he did laugh at his hosts' surprise! She had been Miss Gerrens, the youngest daughter of a respected Cornish shipping family, and had established herself in a dressmaking shop in St. Ives. They had been acquainted for about a year, having met when Masters was trying to fulfill a commission on behalf of a sister for some riband of a particular color; at a party or two subsequently, they had danced a little and talked a little more, and Masters had always been glad to hear of his sister's beginning a new hat or dress. After his visit to the newly wed Brandons in the summer, however, the sergeant had found that he wanted no specific reason to visit Miss Gerrens's shop almost every day. For a time he had nevertheless disguised his calls, and his sister now boasted a handsome collection of riband that she had never ordered. And then disguise had been left behind, and the result of this explosion of feeling was that he and Miss Gerrens had been married at the end of October. She was short and round, perhaps inclined to physical indolence, but possessing a very keen mind; she had not given up her shop, though she did spend fewer hours of the day there, and she read very widely. "She civilizes me," said the happy sergeant, to which Brandon replied with a laugh, "I see no evidence of that at all."

Masters being the sort of bluff, rough-hewn, joking man to whom teenaged boys are often drawn, Philippe and Christophe hovered round him to listen to his colorful anecdotes of India, delivered with rather less modesty than they were accustomed to hear from their uncle. "Did you know that your uncle Brandon once saved me from a sea of quicksand?" he asked of them, and they gasped satisfactorily.

"A puddle, more like," Brandon demurred. "If you had only not flailed about so--"

"You wouldn't have called it a puddle if it had been your knees sinking fast out of sight and no firm ground within your reach to grab for. Flailing about--bah! And has he told you that he dragged me out of harm's way at Ahmedabad with a Sindhi ball in my leg? Without he did that I'd have been trampled for certain."

"You returned that favor at Chauk, when that Maratha fellow came at me with a bayonet," Brandon countered, though the debt of sanity that he owed Jonah Masters perhaps outweighed even the debt of life. He noted with wry amusement that his nephews' eyes were enormous.

The sergeant's own nephews, brothers Robert and Henry Masters, were eighteen and seventeen respectively, and took advantage of their French counterparts' distraction to attach themselves to Margaret, who flirted thoughtlessly with both of them until Elinor, seeing a need for prudence, joined them and questioned the young men about their apprenticeships with a sail-maker. This conversation proving much less engrossing, they soon moved on to flirt with Susan Wilverton, who had no use for them at all.

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

The perpetual social activity of the season provided Marianne with the unexpected opportunity to exercise a different sort of influence, less direct but equally effective and rewarding.

"I want to ask your advice," Elinor said to her one day.

They were engaged in the project of adorning the parsonage dining room with prints that Elinor had chosen from the collections she had purchased and the engravings of the Lakes that the Brandons had brought her from their wedding trip. Most of their usual companions were abroad, Brandon escorting Sarah to the homes of some old family friends to renew acquaintance and show off her children, and Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret walking in the shrubbery, happily planning next year's additions. Edward, however, was closeted in his study working on his Christmas sermon, taking advantage of Rosalind's being sound asleep--for when she was awake he could hardly bring himself to do aught but tug on her fingers and toes to make her smile. Marianne had not slept well the night before after the Sacks-Iversons' ball and was at the moment more temperamentally suited to this quiet pursuit than to visiting.

"My advice?" said she, putting down her scissors. "Usually you give advice to me."

"You seem to want less of it in recent weeks. You are becoming quite an accomplished gad-fly, and it is in that capacity that I believe you can help me--or, more precisely, Edward."

It seemed that Mr. Perryman, a tenant of Mr. Wilverton, was in a predicament regarding his wall. By the terms of their agreement it was Mr. Wilverton's responsibility to maintain this permanent structure; but it had fallen into disrepair, and despite Mr. Perryman's most valiant efforts with stones and wood and daub, his sheep repeatedly escaped its confines and made fodder of his crops. Mr. Perryman had approached Mr. Wilverton's steward on two separate occasions and received assurances, but the repair had not yet been accomplished. He was reluctant to insist; being a new tenant without a solid acquaintance with his landlord, he did not wish to be thought troublesome and risk an increase in his rent. Elinor had heard this narrative from Mrs. Perryman, who, tired of watching her too-patient husband's hard work go for naught, had come to ask "if Rector might somehow put in a word." "Mr. Wilverton is without question a good and honest landlord," Elinor concluded, "but he is too often thinking of a future election rather than the present running of his estate, and as his steward is naturally lazy, work beyond the immediate necessities simply does not get done."

"But how can I help? Surely it is Christopher you want to talk to Mr. Wilverton."

"No, Mrs. Perryman especially wanted Edward, as a neutral party, neither owner nor tenant. And besides, if the colonel intervened, Mr. Wilverton might feel he was incurring a debt to be paid in a vote, and I would not want to place Colonel Brandon in that position."

"What is wanted, then," Marianne said thoughtfully, "is a way to remind Mr. Wilverton of his responsibilities without appearing to be lecturing him."

"Yes, and as Mr. Wilverton can be choleric, and as you are better acquainted with him than either Edward or myself, we thought you might be able to suggest one."

After some minutes' reflection, Marianne could. "Mr. Wilverton loves to expound upon doing one's duty. 'We each have a role in society, and our duty as husband or wife, parent or child, master or servant, etc., consists of behaving as that role requires, otherwise the entire fabric of society will unravel, etc.' Perhaps at the Smedleys' card party tomorrow night, I might introduce the subject when Mr. Wilverton is feeling very amiable over his punch, and then Edward could, as if at a sudden thought, mention Mr. Perryman's difficulties. Thus the problem could be addressed informally, rather than as a result of an official call paid by Edward for the purpose. I would wager that Mr. Wilverton will have the steward in the next morning, and vent his choler upon him rather than upon poor Mr. Perryman."

This plan was executed without mishap; and though it was not known to what degree the steward might have suffered for his oversight, several days later Elinor was able to report that the finest stonemason in Delaford would be at work on Mr. Perryman's wall as soon as the prevailing dreary weather permitted.

So buoyed was Marianne by this success, so pleased with having been of measurable use to her sister--not to mention the Perrymans and even Mr. Wilverton, in showing him his duty--that she immediately began to consider how she might be of use to others. She conceived the notion of beginning a subscription within the Book Society for the support of poor but intelligent children, to pay the school fees their parents could not afford, modest though they were; to buy them books and maps to study at home; and perhaps even to finance private tuition with the schoolmaster or mistress in the evening hours. "It is wrong," she said to Edward, who could name without effort several children who would profit from such benevolence, "that for want of a few pence or shillings while they are young they will be ignorant and unskilled and a trial to the parish all their lives. We do not want a dozen more like Jemmy Rivers. And it would be a misery to them as well, possessing as they do a sensibility beyond their station." But when she began to put forward the idea to her acquaintance she was stymied by the fact of the Society's having already fallen into arrears; for Mrs. Bagglesham was untalented in arithmetic, and had overspent on decorations and refreshments for the annual card party in November. Marianne suggested that Mrs. Bagglesham might find Mrs. Holcombe's advice useful in such a situation, but Mrs. Bagglesham, though she thanked Marianne with all the politeness of which she was capable on such a sore point, did not rush to consult that lady, for fear of hearing the terrible word, "retrenchment."

So matters stood when Eliza arrived with John just before dinner-time on Christmas Eve, having been sewing lace and pearls onto fine ball gowns until the last moment that morning. She was at liberty for a week, Mrs. Sutton having gone to visit her son in Poole until the New Year. John was now in breeches, and looked much more the little boy than the infant. He had grown in energy as well as in height, and when he pelted away toward the park, Polly had to run very fast to catch him before he pelted right into a stew-pond.

Affected by her own burst of confidence and energy after her encouraging visit in October, Eliza too had joined a book society, that presided over by Lady Everdell in Oakhill. Through Mrs. Sutton she had inquired whether she would be welcome, none of the other young apprentices ever having had occasion to set a precedent, and upon being told that there were no society rules against it and that several of the members approved her desire to join, she had attended the very next meeting before her courage failed her. She had written of this important step to Marianne, who sent warm congratulations from herself and her husband; and now, the subject of book societies and their irritations being very much on Marianne's own mind, she brought it up as soon as possible and asked Eliza how she got on.

"Pretty well, I believe," was the answer. "When first I joined they were discussing a volume of Mr. Blair's sermons, and, as I thought that perhaps it would be unwise for someone in my situation to offer comment in any debate on moral behavior, I merely listened, which made them think me either timid or stupid. But now we are reading Some Thoughts Concerning Education, by Mr. Locke, and as I have studied that work closely, I have had a thing or two to say, which quite startles some of them. But nobody has asked me to withdraw, so I suppose that is something. I believe one or two would not hesitate to do so, however, if they could plausibly claim that their daughters' chances of marriage might be harmed by such an indirect association with a--a fallen woman."

"Every society seems to have those members who think they are better than all the others," Marianne declared, from her wide experience of two such societies during two months of membership.

"Yes--and do your societies boast someone who always has a scheme to put forward, something that will cost everybody else both time and money?"

"Currently in our book society, that individual is myself," Marianne said with a laugh, brushing aside Eliza's "Oh dear!" with a wave of her hand--though Eliza was not nearly so flustered by her gaffe as she would have been two months before. Marianne explained her scheme and then added, "I would wager that there are one or two in the society here who very much wish I had fallen so that they could deny me!"

On Christmas Eve the Delaford caroling was exuberant and the visiting singers in hearty if not entirely sober voice, the plum pudding was sweet and the brandy sauce rich, and Marianne was permitted a few sips of potent almond ratafia; and on Christmas Day Edward's sermon, on the virtues of the season and society's pressing need to keep them all the year, was impressive.

On the Monday following, Mrs. Holcombe came to call.

Marianne, Elinor, and Eliza were in the drawing room, readying the gift boxes to be presented to the servants at their dinner that night and to the children at the tenants' dinner two nights hence. Aware of their occupation, Mrs. Baynes herself came to announce Mrs. Holcombe so as to spare any of the maids the temptation to peek, and resolutely fixed her eyes on the bust of Beethoven atop the pianoforte so that she herself would not catch an unintentional glimpse.

Eliza began to excuse herself. "I shall go up to my room--"

"Nonsense," said Marianne firmly. "You are my guest as much as my sister."

Eliza might yet have gone, but that Mrs. Holcombe had arrived in the doorway, and there was no getting around her without disarranging her hat (berry-laden holly and a tiny bird's nest). And then the chance was lost entirely, for Mrs. Holcombe was speaking to her. "And it is so very nice to see you again, Miss Williams--it has been three or four years, I believe, since we have met. I trust you are enjoying your stay with your cousin?"

"Yes--yes, ma'am--" Eliza stammered, almost with alarm.

"And your son is well? You must bring him to see me before you go. I make a very fine ginger cake that my grandchildren always enjoy. I shall prepare some for your visit."

"That is--very thoughtful of you, ma'am." Eliza shot anxious glances toward Marianne and Elinor, but they were as disconcerted as she by such a quantity of civility.

"I understand you are apprenticed to a dressmaker. Do you intend one day to have your own establishment?"

"I--I hope to--yes, ma'am."

"I hope you will come to Delaford so that I might have you make my dresses. Mrs. Moore is a dear soul but she is getting quite blind and will not admit it. I shall certainly be your first client if you come--and I like a new dress every month, you know."

In response to this, poor Eliza could not even stammer, and Marianne, for her part, was forced to accept that her attempt to startle Mrs. Holcombe by presenting her with a fallen woman who was yet treated with all the courtesy due a relation, had in fact only provided Mrs. Holcombe with an opportunity to startle her.

Mrs. Holcombe now turned her attention to Elinor. "I am particularly glad to see you as well, Mrs. Ferrars. I stopped at the parsonage but was told Mr. Ferrars is gone for the day."

"Yes, to distribute the Sacrament money and then to dine with some old university friends in Dorchester."

"I wanted to tell him that I had just passed an hour with old Rector Norton's daughters, who could not stop talking about the relevance of his Christmas sermon, the wisdom of his message, and so on. They said it was as fine as any they ever heard their dear father preach. In truth it was very much finer than Mr. Norton's usual, but I did not say so to them." Upon a very definite bob of her head, one of the holly berries broke away, rolled around the hat brim, and dropped onto the sofa. Mrs. Holcombe did not notice, but Marianne had to press her lips very tightly together.

"I shall certainly convey your report to my husband, Mrs. Holcombe. He worked very hard on his sermon--so hard, in fact, that he is threatening to give it again next Christmas and all the Christmases thereafter."

"The lower orders can hardly hear too often a sermon on love and charity and forgiveness, is my opinion, Mrs. Ferrars, and you may tell your husband that I say so." Elinor promised faithfully, knowing that Mrs. Holcombe would ask Edward the next time she saw him if she had. "I only hope that Mr. Ferrars does not couch his message in language too complex for them."

"He tries always to be both challenging and comprehensible."

"That is a difficult balance to strike. Balance of any sort, in fact, is difficult to strike." Satisfied with their nods of agreement, she launched herself onto a tangent. "I have always thought Colonel Brandon rather excelling at balance, if I might compliment your husband, Mrs. Brandon, as well as your sister's. A gentleman who has sufficient interests and responsibilities to keep him from idleness; a reading man who yet does not disdain the occasional hunt or cricket match; a politically informed man who yet does not take politics as his only food and drink; a willing companion for ladies--before his marriage, of course!--yet not one to take advantage of their sensibilities or think too well of himself because of their flattery." The amazement that Marianne felt at hearing such an evaluation of her husband from a woman with whom she was not at all on intimate terms, can perhaps be imagined--as can, no doubt, her eager wish that Mrs. Holcombe would say more. The wish was granted, in abundance. "I am not the only one--besides yourself!--who thinks him peerless, you know. Mrs. Bagglesham and Mrs. Thornton both tried to catch him for one of their daughters when he first returned to the neighborhood, and you know they each have three, so there were many attempts. They made themselves look rather foolish, for he was impregnable. They had finally dismissed him as a confirmed and eccentric old bachelor when he married after all--so very mortifying for them." Marianne's smile was gracious but perhaps a trifle smug, for it is hardly displeasing to be told that one has the exclusive power to touch the heart of a man who could have had any of a dozen or two desirable (and generously dowried) young ladies. "I hope I have not been too forward, but I have been wanting to suggest to you the reason why they cannot warm to you."

To this last Marianne hardly knew how to reply. Mrs. Holcombe had, in point of fact, been far too forward, but her audience, regrettably, had been riveted. In any case, Mrs. Holcombe gave her no time to formulate the sort of diplomatic response that was now called for but at which Marianne was never very quick. Rising with a "Well, I must be going--," she and her holly berries bobbed out the door ("such a nice visit--do call when you have time--"), and they could only rise with her and be stunned in her wake.

"That woman," Marianne began after a moment's silence, "does not know the meaning of discretion. I wonder what she is saying about me to all and sundry in the neighborhood!" At Elinor's look of disbelief she rolled her eyes. "Yes, I have come to accept that what people think might be of some importance. You may crow."

"I hope I am not inclined to 'crow,' even when I would be justified," Elinor replied, "but I shall point out that we have just been given proof of the very truth it must pique you severely to admit. I cannot but think that Mrs. Holcombe might not have been so welcoming to Miss Williams had not Colonel Brandon always taken pains to conduct himself in a manner that would erase, or at least dim, the memory of the scandals his family has suffered. The neighborhood is probably willing to forgive him anything, and they will extend that consideration to those under his protection." Suddenly appalled, she turned quickly to Eliza. "Oh! my dear Miss Williams, I hope you do not think me insensitive! I am afraid my sister's outspokenness sometimes influences me for ill--"

"Not at all," Eliza hastened to assure her, while Marianne rolled her eyes again. "I had certainly been wondering to what I could ascribe her very kind interest, and I think you have hit upon the explanation. I had never considered coming here to live, but now--if Cousin Brandon would have me near--"

"Of course he would!" Marianne declared, but Eliza still looked dubious.

"Your cousin apparently can do no wrong," said Elinor, "at least in the eyes of those who had not marked him as a potential son-in-law, and your own exemplary behavior, Marianne, has only reinforced Mrs. Holcombe's good opinion. I never thought I could consider vanity a virtue--or if not precisely a virtue," stepping back from actual condonation, "a sometimes useful trait. She will take it upon herself, I believe, to guide the neighborhood should you decide to settle here, Miss Williams."

"Dictate to them, you mean," countered Marianne, but without the resentment she would once have shown, for she was remembering Mrs. Holcombe's avowed interest in educating the laboring class, and musing that here might be a suitable, if unlikely, ally for her own interrupted scheme. And I would have thought of her weeks ago had I ever taken the trouble to become acquainted with her. Would that I had learned some lessons sooner!

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During the ensuing several days it began to seem to Marianne that Eliza had become somewhat preoccupied. John often had to say "Mama!" twice or three times to fully engage her attention, to show her that he had arranged his wooden alphabet in almost perfect order or spelled out his name (though often without the H), or to complain that Louise still refused to play with him, but instead sat quietly to one side with her arms wrapped around her doll. Louise, in fact, was far too subdued for a child of three years and a half. Of her new acquaintance she gravitated only to her Uncle Brandon. "She misses her Papa," said Sarah, "and finds him a little in Christopher." Claude never failed to include a special note to his "chère Lou-lou," as well as to all his children, in the long letters that always made Sarah's eyes fill with missing him. He wrote every day, but his letters often arrived several at once owing to the vagaries of the post from France. Five letters arrived during Eliza's visit, two on one morning and three the next, and to Marianne she seemed especially intent to see Sarah and the boys taking turns reading the letters aloud, to Louise and to each other. Her expression softened into wistfulness as she tried not to listen, tried not to observe the sweet familial scene, and Marianne wondered if Eliza yet believed she had thrown away all hope of ever being part of such a scene herself. Did she dream of it with Willoughby? She would not have known it with him. Selfish and spoiled, Willoughby was not capable of placing a wife's or a child's needs and wants above his own. He would not possess the energy or the foresight to alter his will and arrange his finances almost the moment he knew that a child was on the way, as her own husband had done. Mrs. Jennings, not understanding that her correspondent might be more pained than pleased by news of Willoughby's vices, had reported that he now spent even more freely than he had; how soon would Miss Grey's money be gone, and the Allenham fortune afterward? He would not write notes to an infant, as Claude did to tiny Marie--even to an infant he chose to acknowledge.

How fortunate she was to have been spared a life with such a man! Had she married him and only then learned of his treatment of Eliza and John, she could never have forgiven him, could never again have looked at him with love. She would have lost him, without being free of him. And Eliza and John would have been only the instruments of her agony, of the destruction of her marriage; she could never have opened her heart to them, could never have concerned herself with Eliza's peace of mind or John's future--though they would have been no more to blame in that altered circumstance than they were now. She would never have been able to help John with his letters, or sit him on her lap at the pianoforte and teach him a few notes, or sing to him her favorite songs--treating this child who might have been hers as she would soon treat the child of her own happy union.

With such a large family party it was inevitable that they should attempt the reading of a play. As the suggestion of Much Ado about Nothing was Eliza's, it was she who was delegated to assign parts, and during several afternoons she and Marianne together instructed Philippe and Christophe and Margaret in some of their lines. (Privately Marianne thought that Edward and Elinor would be most in need of direction, but she said nothing on the subject; that lesson she had learned well.) When they gathered in the sitting room for the reading, Brandon was a romantic and amusing Benedick, Marianne a dramatic and vivacious Beatrice, the boys zealous as the noble Don Pedro and the villainous Don John, and even Edward and Elinor, caught up in the shared good spirits, did not dishonor themselves as Claudio and Hero. Eliza reserved for herself the droll Dogberry, her exuberance in her role coaxing greater energy from everybody else. Coffee and tea and sweets were generously supplied and consumed, and Marianne thought that she would rather have such an evening as this than any assembly or ball, no matter how gay.

"Wasn't Eliza wonderful!" she exclaimed to her husband later. "Such energy and humor--I knew she was an actress at heart."

"Yes, she was delightful, almost as of old. She always liked to read to me when she visited, and was particularly adept at humor. When she was twelve she read all of Gulliver's Travels, altering her voice for every character. She has not wanted to perform in that way for quite a long time, and I was overjoyed to watch her. But--do you not think that something is troubling her?"

"You have noticed, too."

"Yes. Then you do not know what it is?"

"No, she has said nothing to me. But we mustn't let her brood--"

"I will talk to her before she goes, if she says nothing before then."

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

It was not until the night before Eliza and John returned to Oakhill that Eliza's concerned hosts learned what was the cause of her preoccupation. After seeing John into bed she came into the sitting room, where the Brandons were savoring the warmth of coffee and brandy and each other's company on a frosty night.

"May I speak with you, Cousin Brandon?" she asked from the doorway.

"My dear Eliza, how can you think you must ask my permission? Do come in and sit with us, and say whatever you like."

"I shall see if Sarah and Madeleine need any assistance with the girls--"

"Please, Mrs. Brandon, I should like you to stay, if you will." Marianne remained in her chair, and Eliza sat rather stiffly facing them both. "It is an awkward matter that I wish to discuss--a sensitive matter--two, in fact--" She drew a deep breath in an effort to collect herself. "I do not know, Cousin, whether Mrs. Brandon has told you of what Mrs. Holcombe said to me when she called the other day."

Brandon smiled. "About engaging you to make her dresses? Yes, she told me, and I was delighted to hear it. Will you also design her hats?"

Marianne giggled, and was glad to see that Eliza seemed to relax a little at his jest. "Do you then approve?" Eliza asked. "Of--of my settling in Delaford?"

"I would not think of opposing Mrs. Holcombe's wishes," he replied gravely, but instantly allowed his smile to reappear. "Of course I approve, dear Eliza. What is this uncertainty? I did not know before if you could be happy here--if you would be accepted--but one could not ask for any more positive indication. When the time comes we shall find you a comfortable house in the village, or down a side lane if you prefer a quieter location."

Listening to his proposed generosity, Eliza was suddenly shy. "My own establishment--" she said softly. "I shall be glad to be less of a burden upon you."

"Of course that is a few years distant. The vicar at Oakhill might have swept you off your feet by then."

She laughed with sudden cheer. "As the vicar is above seventy years old, with ten children and twenty-two grandchildren thus far--I think that not very likely!"

"He will soon need a curate, then--a good sort of fellow who will be looking for a wife-- Lord bless me!--I am sounding like Mrs. Jennings!" They all three shared a laugh, for Eliza could remember when Mrs. Jennings had brought her daughter Charlotte to Delaford in an attempt to storm the impregnable fortress that was its master. "What is the other matter?"

Instantly Eliza sobered, and began to rub and twist her fingers together. "The other matter--is rather more difficult--more intrusive--and if you object you must tell me--you must be as honest with me as you have always been." He assured her most sincerely that he would be. "It is about John, and--and his name."

"His name?" Brandon exchanged a puzzled glance with Marianne.

"You never approved of my naming him John after his father, and--and I have come to see that you were right." Brandon's eyebrows lifted, but he did not interrupt her. "But I cannot change it now; John is old enough to be confused by such a step, and besides, the name is so common that it is impossible that anyone should make a connection based solely upon that. What I should like to do instead--" Here she faltered, and for some moments could not go on; her hands were quite red from the violence of her fingers. "What I ask your leave to do instead," she continued at last in a faint voice, "is to--to add the name Brandon, so that he will be John Brandon Williams--so that he will know, and that others will know, what good gentleman has always concerned himself with his welfare." Brandon simply stared at her, and she continued in a rush. "I suggest it to do you honor--though I do not deny that I also suggest it as a repudiation of Mr. Willoughby--but I am aware that by asking you this I also ask you to acknowledge John in a way his own father would not, and if you feel it more insult than honor I will understand. You need not enumerate the reasons--I told them all to myself over and over when deciding whether to ask such a great favor-- If you feel it an insult, I shall withdraw my request at once, and never mention it again." She had spoken faster and faster, so that the last few sentences had been said with hardly one drawn breath.

Brandon was stunned. Marianne could see that he was, that he had never considered that Eliza, prone to the dramatic gesture as she was, might ever suggest this. She was certain that with any other child he would have consented at once, but with this child-- Could he, even to recognize and strengthen Eliza's complete and decisive rejection of her seducer, allow Willoughby's son to bear his name?

To Eliza it must have seemed an hour or a day, but Brandon's silence lasted in actuality only a few seconds. Marianne saw his face change, saw surprise give way to decision; saw before Eliza did the light appear in his eyes and the smile take hold of his lips. He rose and crossed to Eliza's chair, hands outstretched, and as she gripped them and was drawn up into his embrace a sob escaped her throat. He pressed her to his breast, saying in a rough voice, "I would be so pleased, my dearest Beth, so pleased--and very deeply honored. I thank you. And I honor you, for having the courage to make this final break."

Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she freed herself enough that she could look past his shoulder directly at Marianne. "I was shown a proper example."

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Chapter Twelve

In the second week of January the Brandons and the Marchbankses travelled together to Bath to exclaim over the magnificent arias and ballads of Madame d'Aulan. Afterward Sarah and the children returned to Whitwell, while Brandon and Marianne remained until the end of the month, bowling at Sydney Gardens and daring the labyrinth there, and eating too many Sally Lunn buns. Their stay felt something like a second wedding-trip, and Marianne was glad to have this time alone with her husband before having to face the distractions and emergencies that would inevitably arrive with their child. Brandon, too, delighted in once again being able to focus his attentions entirely upon his wife rather than also upon estate and army business and parish meetings, but their stay was not pleasant solely because of what the days lacked. He was at ease in these environs as he had not been for quite some time, his constant awareness of Eliza's past misery here fading before the knowledge of her present good fortune and animated spirits; and Marianne, sensing her husband put aside more and more of those old concerns almost by the hour, thought that by next season she herself might even contemplate with pleasure a stay in London, the site of her own past grief. When a voice inside whispered that she might meet Willoughby there, she smiled into her dressing table mirror and said softly but firmly, "I hope it is when I am with Christopher, so that he may see how happy I am without him. That would be very satisfying indeed."

They passed the mornings in walks and shopping, returning to their rooms in the afternoon so that Marianne could put her feet up before dinner and the evening's concert or theatrical. She was feeling quite well, but she had grown large and ungainly enough that frequent pauses were necessary as they went about the town. For these she continually apologized, until Brandon said, "When all the labor of bearing our children is yours, do you think I feel inconvenienced by a few moments' rest now and then?"

"For that very considerate thought I would kiss you," she said with a bright-eyed smile, "were we alone." They had taken a table in Molland's for marzipan and tea, the day being too chilly for sitting out of doors, and in response to her remark he pressed his thigh against hers under the tablecloth.

"Do you realize," she said, keeping to their innocent subject though her eyes expressed appreciation of the warmth transferring from his body to hers, "that our first child will be born in the first year of the nineteenth century? And in the spring as well, when the elder will be out, and the willow and hawthorn and bluebells, and the sun will be warm and bright again." She indulged a secret hope that their firstborn would be a girl, for she thought it might be useful to gain some experience with a child of the less vigorous sex; having now spent some time in the close company of boys of various ages--she had previously avoided whenever possible the Middleton boys and her nephew Harry Dashwood, finding them all intolerable from being spoiled and conceited--she had decided that she found even civilized male children somewhat overwhelming and rather incomprehensible, and was glad of this respite from them. But with Christopher as their model, of course, her sons could never be anything less than perfect gentlemen. "Perhaps he--or she--will live to be a hundred and usher in the twentieth!"

"I should not want to live to be a hundred, to become frail and toothless and a burden to my children."

"You would not necessarily lose all your teeth," Marianne pointed out, with the usual unconcern of youth. "But in any case, you must do your best to live as long as I do. I have ached so for Sarah these last months. She must feel something like a widow, separated from her husband for so long. Please do not be offended, but I confess it is a relief to be away from her for a while, for she makes me imagine what I would feel to be in her place, separated from you. I do not think I would be as brave."

He wanted very much to kiss her hands. "I am quite certain you would be."

"I am quite certain I should be every bit as miserable. --Oh dear, I am making myself cry. I cry so easily these days. I must say something funny-- Did I tell you that Mrs. Holcombe compared you to a fortress? She said that no matter how they tried, Mrs. Bagglesham and Mrs. Thornton could not breach your walls for their daughters."

"My walls crumbled of their own accord as I came to love you, my Marianne."

"Oh, Christopher!" she wailed softly, digging into her reticule for her handkerchief. "Now you are making me cry!"

Though he regretted most sincerely being the cause of her tears, and helped her to recover by not subjecting her to another tender word until they had safely regained the walk, he was as always encouraged--nay, transported!--by such evidence of the continual strengthening of her affection for him. Moments like these sustained him when he heard no special resonance in her voice as she read romantic poems to him, or speeches in a play, or sang ballads of love. While he had struggled not to invest Benedick's revelation with the undercurrent of his own wistfulness--"By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me"--Marianne had given no hint that Beatrice's answer held for her anything like the significance it held for Beatrice: "I was about to protest I loved you. . . . I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."¹ She had had no consciousness of the effect of those words upon her most attentive listener. (But if those lines had contained no personal relevance, perhaps he need not have felt a twinge of melancholy when Benedick had teased, "Then you do not love me?", and Beatrice had responded, "No, truly, but in friendly recompense."²) And in these more recent days, though she had wanted to add to their library several romances that they had seen performed, and had purchased music for many of the love songs they had heard at concerts, he knew that the passion with which she would read and sing those pieces would not--yet--be meant especially for him. In time, however, it would, and oh! what boundless joy he would feel on that day!

They enjoyed themselves immensely, filling every day with as much activity as they possibly could, and returned home, as is proper after a journey for the purpose of relaxation and amusement, in a state of near-exhaustion. Within a few days of their arrival, work commenced on the enlargement and redecorating of the nursery--a project that had begun with the idea of simply knocking down an interior wall to incorporate a small corner bedroom, but had then expanded, upon the generally unsought advice of family and friends, to encompass grander windows, a raised ceiling, a larger fireplace, water pipes, and a miniature castle. Brandon, however, though generous perhaps to a fault, could not be tempted by wastefulness; the original plan to remove the single wall prevailed, with the modest addition of more colorful wallpaper and curtains. Marianne had hoped to escape the noise and debris and dust by having the work done during their absence, but her cautious husband had not had the slightest intention of allowing workmen into his house with sledgehammers unless he was present to supervise. He apologized for exposing her to irritation and inconvenience, but she took refuge frequently at the parsonage to sew or to work on her accounts, or, if the day was fine, sat reading in the pale sun on the lawn, and was really not very much disturbed.

A moving but somewhat upsetting distraction was offered by her husband's old letters, brought by Sarah at Christmas after she had fully unpacked her trunks. Amidst all the company and bustle of the season Marianne had not been able to devote uninterrupted hours to them, and now unfolded the pages eagerly. Curious, yet highly conscious of this invasion of his privacy--no less an invasion because he had consented to it--she read with care and respect, warmed by this portrait of a youth she could never know but chilled by what that youth had suffered. The handwriting was recognizably his own but less confident, less controlled; the words formed by that almost-familiar hand were heartrending. I do not understand how he can deny us. Have I been so very disappointing a son? Has Eliza been such a burden to him? What have we done to deserve such ruthless treatment? They are cold, unfeeling--they do not know what torment they inflict-- And when he had reached India, after a long and miserable voyage: This place terrifies me--I believe I must have found my way to Hell itself. The heat is unbearable, the baking sun remorseless--I have fainted three times this week on the parade ground. But I have not yet died, as so many do, sometimes only days after their arrival. I think I will fail at soldiering, Sal, for I am not made to order men about. Would it be worse, I wonder, to fail or to die? Though she was his confidante, he had not written to Sarah of the battles into which he had been thrust almost the moment of his arrival, wanting no doubt to spare her the horrible particulars, and for that Marianne was grateful; she would not have wanted to picture him in such terrible danger. She could see its effects, however, in the face that gazed at her from the miniature Sarah had included, a face that was much too haggard, lined with too many cares, to belong to a man but one and twenty years of age. Battle, however, had not been his greatest trial. A few months later: Charles writes that Father died in August. I cannot grieve for him. I am glad I am away from home and not faced with the choice of dishonoring myself by attending the funeral, or disgracing the family by staying away. He willed to me the staggering sum of one thousand pounds--did you know? Of course the estate cannot pay it just now, says Charles, with proper protestations of regret. I do not care. Probably I shall not live long enough to make any use of it-- Reading these passages, the miniature clutched to her breast, Marianne wanted to run to her husband to put her arms around him, to comfort the boy he no longer was. He had faced these blows to his hopes and spirit when he was younger than she was now and all but alone in the world, faced them and conquered them, but had not been unmarked by them.

She was very glad to be able to read Sarah's replies as well, for Brandon had obtained his sister's permission to share them with her. It was Sarah who had insisted, over and over again, that he was not to blame, that he had not brought this punishment, if punishment it was, upon himself. In a sweeping, decisive hand, she had written, Dearest Kit, you must stop reproaching yourself for the sins of those who abuse their power over you. You have done nothing to bring this fate upon yourself; their actions are purely venal, and therefore impersonal. I will say it and say it again until you believe it. . . . You must take care of yourself! What shall I do without my favorite brother in the world? If you die because you neglect your health and safety I shall tell all your nieces and nephews that their uncle was the greatest fool on earth--casting his life away before he had even begun to live it. You are so very young, dear Kit. You can recover if you will only try . . . It was no wonder he adored her; for all Jonah Masters's interest, if not one person in his family, no one who was truly acquainted with the situation, had supported him--

But his own strength of spirit, bolstered by friendship and sibling affection, had triumphed. By his last year in India he was writing of how much he had come to respect that fascinating land--its dark and beautiful people and their strange but thought-provoking beliefs, its perturbing contrasts of wretchedness and grace. His letters even began to include a little humor--I shall never regard a cow in quite the same way again. They are sacred here, and to look at them I do believe they know it. . . . You may keep your macaroons and your meringues, my dear epicurean sister. Today Masters has finally got me to chew some betel nut, wrapped with lime and cardamom and aniseed in a betel leaf. I am a ghastly sight!--my mouth and lips and teeth stained a hideous blood red. My good friend swears it is a temporary effect . . .--and Sarah wrote of her relief at reading page after page that contained no disturbing sentiments. He had learned to be a soldier as well, and wrote of commendations from his superiors, convivial evenings at the officers' tables, and a proper respect shown to him by the majority of his men--The rascals threaten to mutiny once or twice a week, but they do it with a wink and a smile as they are devouring the extra rations I have procured for them out of my own pocket. I confess I shall miss them when I transfer to England, for shared hardship breeds a certain esprit de corps that ease does not--

Spending time in a past that touched her so deeply and yet was not hers, contemplating on almost the eve of the birth of her first child the profound differences between her husband's parents and her own, led Marianne to investigate that girlhood she seemed sometimes to have left very far behind. She retrieved her old diaries from the chest in her dressing room, in which she kept not only her juvenile ruminations but also the letters her mother had written to her before Margaret's birth and her own. She would write such a letter to the child she carried, to speak of her love and her dreams for him or her, in case--in case the worst should occur and that child's mother be taken from this world. When such thoughts came to her she felt as though she had never been young, for what girl of five or ten or fifteen dwells for more than a moment upon her own mortality? While she was in this frame of mind, her diaries revealed to her a girl she barely remembered, forming convictions without mature reflection, possessing sarcasm without humor, intelligence without humility. She smiled at her own harsh judgment of herself; what would she think ten, or even five years from now, when she read again her recent complaints about her neighbors? No doubt she would think herself insufferable!

And then she gave a little gasp, for she had come upon a passage she had utterly forgotten she had ever written, a distillation of all the wisdom she had possessed at the advanced age of fourteen upon the interconnected subjects of husbands and marriages. I will never utter a falsehood or wear a mask to "catch a husband." What an offensive phrase that is!--and representative of an offensive attitude, that men and women are mere objects, or prey, to be reeled in by bait upon a hook just like a trout--the worm being fortune, and the larger the worm the more valued the possessor. How stifling and unjust to be measured by fortune alone! Elinor asserts that I discount the importance of money at my peril, but though I should certainly wish to marry a man with an impressive fortune, I should much rather be poor and loved than rich and neglected. And I must be loved for myself, for my honest claims to virtue and wit and talent, rather than for how well I conform to a shallow, artificial ideal of Woman. It will be an intelligent man who attracts me, a witty, perceptive man, secure in his own opinions and tastes and not bound by those of society. He must be amiable and virtuous, a man of honor but not of pride, able to converse readily on any subject but not at all inclined to show off his knowledge. Of course she proceeded in her next paragraphs to such silly pronouncements as that a handsome face and form and a passionate love of dancing were perfect indicators of such desired internal qualities in a man--her former blindness had a very long history indeed!--but she felt a small thrill of pride that even when so young she had in fact possessed a little insight.

"I was describing you," she said to her husband when she showed him the passage that night, "though I did not even know you."

"I am flattered-- No, no--forgive me--you do not flatter! I am honored that you consider me worthy of such a glowing description as this." Intrigued by this revealing glimpse of her younger self, he ventured to ask, "May I read more?"

She all but snatched the book from his hands. "Oh no! Most of it is an embarrassment--full of childish idiocies. I know it is unfair, when you have been so generous with your letters, but if you were to read these all your illusions about me would be completely destroyed. I cannot allow it."

The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with amusement. "I have no illusions about you, my Marianne."

"You are fully aware, then, that I am rude and immodest and opinionated?"

"You are candid and spirited and intelligent, and I would not have you any other way."

"And what if our daughters are all like me? Can you endure a houseful of candid and spirited women?"

He placed a gentle hand upon her swollen belly. "I hope all our children, girls and boys, are like you."

"What an awful thought! I am certain that I cannot endure a houseful of spirited boys--oh!" The baby had kicked, hard. When she had caught her breath, she continued with a laugh, "It must be a boy, and that was a protest on behalf of his sex."

His hand had not shifted its position, and she was sincerely affected by the look of wonder on his face. He did not often feel the baby move, for to guarantee it he would, as he said, have to attach his hand to her belly like a leech. But he would not go to sleep without feeling the stir of life within her. "I shall never become accustomed to this marvel, no matter how many children we should have. --But I so wish I could make you more comfortable--" This as Marianne was trying to find a position on her side which would allow her to breathe with some ease.

"I wish you could as well. And Elinor and Mama and Eliza assure me that it will be worse in the final month, as will the aching back and swollen ankles and general sleeplessness. It really seems quite unfair," she added with great indignation, "that a woman should begin motherhood in a state of exhaustion!"

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¹William Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing, IV.1.274; IV.1.283-4, 286-7. [Return]

²V.4.82-3. [Return]

Perhaps the Brandons heard something like these songs and instrumental pieces in Bath (links to Amazon.com pages with sound clips).

18th-c. Italian Songs
Medieval French Songs
English Music of the 18th c.
Songs and Duets from 18th_c. London

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Continue to Chapters 13-15

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