Every time I read Sense and Sensibilty, I enjoy myself greatly until the very end. Then, I come to the same problem. The great and loyal attachment of Colonel Brandon is quickly resolved by a union to Marianne Dashwood with no real explanation of how it came about, or how Marianne, who seems fairly oblivious to him through the end of the novel, might have been prevailed upon to accept him. The movies address this gap somewhat, but with the addition of some modern fictions—a gentleman pianist is more the stuff of our century than the 18th. Except for dangerous Willoughby, who is clearly the Bohemian villain. I want to see if I can address the gap without changing the intentions of the era. The only exception is writing style. It is modern; I do not attempt to imitate Austen on more than a superficial level, as I should enjoy the process of spinning this tale less, were I wrapped up in doing so.
To make up for the decided lack of male artistry, I have (or intend to, in future chapters) thrown in more music in a more accepted form for the time period. It is clear from the novel that Brandon appreciated music deeply, even if he was not a musician. Also, I seize the chance to write about opera whenever I get the opportunity. Note, though, that I've taken license with history. Although the "Marriage of Figaro" was written at least 12-15 years before Sense and Sensibility takes place, the British were notoriously stuffy about accepting Italian opera in its unadulterated form, and so a true version of Mozart's opera was not performed in London until many years later.
There is also the matter of "Young Lochnivar", introduced in Chapter 3. Though it was written before Sense and Sensibility was published, it surely postdates Austen's first draft, and therefore is arguably an impossible object for young Marianne's romantic enthusiasm. Still, I thought the analogy too close to Brandon's history and heroic ride not to make. And since Austen clearly sketches the Colonel as her Romantic hero in disguise and since we know she read Scott, it is appropriate.
Chapter 1 "Unfinished" AKA "She Doesn't Have to Go Home But She Can't Stay Here"
Miss Marianne Dashwood brushed the orange blossom petals from her lap. She had chosen—unwisely, perhaps, to wear a dull red to Edward and Elinor's wedding, and also, unwisely, to shred the decorations pinned to her sleeve. Nerves, Mrs. Dashwood would have said. Pure nerves.
And yet, Marianne was not given to nerves these days, not after she had so bravely announced that she would devote herself to instruction and study, and quietly enjoy a life with her mother and sisters inside the intimate circle at Barton Park. The reason for her resolution remained unspoken, a name—unuttered, except for one brief conversation many months earlier with Elinor.
That conversation had been quickly eclipsed by the explosion of intense joy at resolving Edward and Elinor Ferrars' long and painful mutual misunderstanding—an explosion which had its certain resolution in this day. For on this day, those happy two were to stand before God and men and announce their happiness to the world one final time. Elinor could contemplate her future near her family, at Delaford. Within such easy reach, Marianne would, she assured her, be gaining a brother rather than losing a sister.
But at this moment, Elinor's assurances rang hollow in her sister's ears. And it was this leaden weight in her belly that caused her to make short work of the bouquet before the procession had even begun.
"I do not really think those poor flowers can be saved." Marianne looked up to the shadow suddenly flung across her lap to see the grave and well-arranged Colonel Brandon.
The Colonel had been her family's friend since their arrival at Barton Park, and more lately the benefactor of Elinor and Edward. Very slowly, since the departure of her illness the previous year, he had begun to become her friend as well. His calm and constant presence, his frequent visits, and his desire to be of nothing but use to her mother and sisters, had impressed upon her the worth of his character—a worth established, it seemed, from the day Elinor had related Eliza's sordid tale. She summoned a sad smile at his awkward phrasing.
"Then let us hope Elinor will not notice," said Marianne. "She is not likely to notice much today, after all."
The Colonel nodded, the ghost of a smile creasing his eyes. Wisely, he refrained from asking Marianne what had upset her so much that she had seen fit to dissect her bridesmaid's bouquet—before the wedding, at that! Instead his solemn eyes followed her for some moments before she rose to rejoin the party waiting at Barton Church. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Indeed, Mrs. Jennings regularly remarked on how often their beloved Colonel seemed to be observing Miss Marianne with concern, even so long after her illness.
But Marianne had moved on to other things—namely, Edward and Elinor's wedding. It was not until the noise of the processional had died away and various guests and party members were milling about, arranging the relocation to Barton Park for the wedding feast, that the same dull look eclipsed Marianne again. Her eyes lost their usual sheen. Only the Colonel took note.
"Miss Dashwood, what is the matter?"
They were standing in the mud near the latter two carriages in the party. A great deal of conversation, planning, and discussion had erupted at the front of the carriage procession, partly regarding how Elinor and Edward should ride, and partly the order in which they should proceed to Barton Park. For a few moments, Marianne and Colonel Brandon were left alone, in the cold shade of a willow. She hesitated, then burst out with all her usual frankness:
"Miss Dashwood—that is exactly the matter. I am Miss Dashwood now, and Elinor will be gone to Delaford. I cannot think how I shall fare without her."
Despite her candor, Marianne was a great deal more restrained than the girl of a year ago, who had boisterously carried on with Willoughby, and even than the girl of six months ago who had nearly grieved herself into the grave. Now she seemed positively as somber as the autumn, though of course it was nothing when compared with the gravity of Colonel Brandon.
"I daresay you will not be much without her; it is not far away." The Colonel mustered hope as if he were trying to convince himself. Perhaps, in fact, he had said the same thing to himself about Marianne. Brandon did not have the air of a desperate man. He might be desperately in love with Marianne, to be sure, but an Army man knew how to check himself, and in all things the Colonel was both cautious and prudent. In fact, so completely did his reserve veil his affection from the impressionable younger Miss Dashwood, that she was oblivious to his regard. The rest of the family, of course, was not entirely convinced of his indifference.
Despite his reassuring words, however, there was a slight tremble to Marianne's hands, and she seemed pale. "You do not understand," she sighed. "The world is more idle for women. You men have important things to do. What have we? Embroidery? Painting? Barton Cottage grows tedious sometimes even with Elinor there. But we could converse, compare opinions, discuss music or art—in short, we are a world to each other. And now-" A catch in Marianne's throat cut off her discourse. The Colonel shifted his stance from one foot to the other.
"Well—" he began, hoarsely. "Delaford is not so far away." He was repeating himself, really. "She will call on you, you will call on her." Brandon sounded almost hopeful. He hesitated, then, at a sudden rise in the noise from the carriages, plunged on ahead. "And I shall call on your mother as I always have."
"Yes," said Marianne, suddenly grateful. "It is a pleasure, and you always have books for me. Books, conversation-But you cannot be there every day, as Elinor is—Was." She broke off again and her eyes showed that she was thinking of a thousand pleasant everyday conversations that they must have had over the past years.
"No, that is impossible," agreed the Colonel. "Unless-" His last word turned harsh, and he cut his speech short, as if he had suddenly thought better of what he was going to say. And besides, Mrs. Jennings was calling Marianne. In the chaos of the following moments—arranging the occupants of carriages, and the order of departures, the moment was lost. Perhaps that was fortunate, given the obvious discomfort felt by Brandon at his near-slip.
At the wedding feast in Barton, despite what must have nearly been a rather shocking confession, Marianne was sanguine. In fact, she even danced four dances with the Colonel, all while giving nary a thought to the "Unless—" that had nearly told everything, all at once. Brandon seemed on edge, his eyes lingering on her in doubt. But she was oblivious.