"I wonder what Elinor is doing this morning," Marianne murmured, looking out over the valley in which Barton Park was located. In the weeks following their wedding, Elinor and Edward were pleased to stay at the home of their dear friend, Colonel Brandon, while the three of them finalized the alterations and improvements to the parsonage. And, as they were loath to be without Elinor for long, at least half the time her mother and sisters attended them. Now that the parsonage was complete, the family stayed with the Ferrarses when in Delaford VIllage, but only for a week at a time, for Mrs Dashwood could not bear to trespass further on Edward's goodwill, for he still had to tend to his flock, even with a house full of guests.
"If you lived at Delaford," her mother intoned from the corner of the parlour, "you could walk over and find out."
Marianne could not help but roll her eyes at the third time her mother had made such a statement this week. Mrs Dashwood - as well as everyone at the park and parsonage - was united against her in a plan to marry her to the Colonel. As for her, while she had every kind of respect for him as a friend and loving patron of her family, she did not feel within herself the passion that she felt, no, knew, was necessary to form such a union.
"Say so one more time, Mama, and I shall be forced to join Margaret in the sitting room in her conjugations." Mrs Dashwood goodnaturedly shook her head and did not look up from her work.
Margaret paused her chanting to inquire, "Did someone say my name?"
"Go back to your work, child," her mother replied.
Marianne continued gazing out the window, listening to her sister's recitation and the crackling of the low fire in the hearth. Her own book was face-down in her lap where it had been for most of the last quarter of an hour; her tea was cold. A sigh escaped her. How dull Barton Cottage had become, without Elinor and without the attentions of the young man with whom Marianne had once been determined to share the rest of her life. As for herself, she had determined for a life of study and care of her mother and chaperoning of Margaret - not that their mother allowed the girl to go much farther than Barton Park, and Marianne could hardly bear the company that awaited them there. Every pleasure their home had once offered her had departed for happier days in matrimony.
Suddenly she snapped her book closed and set it aside. "All right, Mama. Write to the Colonel and tell him I will accept his proposal."
Mrs Dashwood dropped her needlework to her lap and Margaret stopped reciting.
"Well, go on - before I change my mind," Marianne insisted. Without a word, her mother ran from the room, her sewing frame crashing to the floor.
Colonel Brandon was reclining in the library of Delaford; outside his window he could just glimpse the little church where his friends the Ferrarses were no doubt preparing for afternoon prayers. Elinor had quite a bit of work to do in taking care of her husband and the parish, though she, of course, did not complain. In Edward, Brandon had found an equally good friend; he dearly loved their company, and was grateful that he was able to visit with them socially often and saw them each morning for services.
The book he happened to be reading was, in fact, on loan from Edward, a book he'd read in seminary at Oxford and which Brandon was enjoying. He looked forward to having them for dinner in the next few days and having the chance to talk about it with his friends.
A soft rap on the library door roused him from its pages. "Come in," he called. Rebecca entered with a letter on her silver tray.
"Message from Barton, sir," she said. "Thomas just come by with it."
A letter from the park, and thus from Sir John, Brandon's lifelong friend from the army, would be expected; a letter from the cottage - for Thomas was the manservant of the Dashwoods - was startling. "Thank you, Rebecca," he said, and she curtseyed and left. He opened the letter quickly, worried about what ill news might demand its sending; he saw the Dashwoods every other week and Elinor virtually every day, so there was no news he needed to know which he did not already receive in person.
His eyes swept swiftly through Mrs Dashwood's handwriting. His color drained and his hands trembled slightly; this was, most assuredly, not a message he had anticipated.
"Rebecca!" he called down the corridor after her. The maid turned, surprised by the urgency in her master's voice. "Have Patrick saddle my horse."