The sun shone brightly through tiny, dusty windowpanes casting light on an old empty vase. The glass, chipped and scratched, reflected the sun blinding its observer. Shielding her eyes from the harsh light Marianne looked about the room. She examined its rough floorboards and pallid walls and it reminded her of how cold and empty Barton Cottage had once seemed, the first night the Dashwood's had descended upon it.
Stepping further into the light she moved towards the window. Each little pane offered her a view of a wild and seemingly untameable garden. A distant look passed her face and she half smiled to herself as she recalled a memory filled with childish giggles, flying bonnets, disapproving looks and impertinence.
She was brought sharply back to the present with the sound of metal studs on the parlour floor. She could hear the Betsey busying herself within the back kitchen. No doubt worrying about the all consuming time it would take to eliminate the seven-and-twenty years of dust the house had seemed to accumulate since abandonment by its last inhibitors. The studs echoed throughout the empty house as the owner made his way down the hall, stopping periodically. The sound became heavier. She tensed. It had grown darker. Billowing clouds eclipsed the sun. Stepping back from the window she composed herself. Feeling flustered.
She felt his presence, yet she need not have been so nervous. 'Mrs Brandon' came the gentle exclamation. Exerting a sign of relief she turned and almost fell into his welcoming arms. 'Christoper' she gasped. She feared so terribly that she would lose the overwhelming compassionate she felt towards him and it was this surge of feeling that propelled her towards his arms.
He had cared for her and been near to her even when it was not his duty. For this she owed him her life. It was true she did not believe she felt true passion towards him, however she knew from bitter experience that passion could mask a falsehood of character. She had come to realise that through Willoughby. Her dearest Willoughby.
'You look flustered my darling.' He said as he observed her countenance. He was not so presumptuous to think she was overcome with ardour at his mere presence. 'You are not feverous?' a look of fear flickered in his eyes.
'No. Do not fear for my health. I am quite well.' She pulled away from him and turned to face the window again. 'It is leaving Mama and Margaret in the clutches of Mrs Jennings that you should fear, my dear Brandon.' It was a small lie. A 'necessity' as Mama would say in order to keep civility. He was her keeper now and though she knew she should devote herself wholly to him, she could not help her fanciful thoughts.
He sensed her sudden coldness as she withdrew from his arms. He tried to engage her thoughts elsewhere, least ways then she could stop fretting over Mrs Dashwood and Miss Margaret. 'Thomas will be bringing the furniture tomorrow from town, along with your piano.' He came behind her and touched her shoulder. At the hearing of her beloved instrument she relax. 'And tomorrow, we shall travel to town and you may chose material to frame this beautiful window.'
'Colour would certainly liven up this room. This house.' She responded.
They both gazed beyond the window and absent minded he added, 'such a feral yet enchanting garden'
The clouds that had cast a shadow over the garden and the house disappeared and the sun gleamed, as though it had never been disturbed. A glimmer of light from the corner of the room caught the Christopher's eye. 'Flowers? Mrs Brandon' the Christoper asked quizzically. 'Flowers?' she replied. He glanced at the vase and her eyes followed his gaze. 'There are none Colonel Brandon. You are surly indulging in a fantasy. It is but trickery of the light and heat. You are hot, are you not?' She gave him a concerned look, yet he just smiled bemused with himself. It was true he felt stuffy and flustered in his rather old-fashioned starch clothing.
However she had misunderstood. Taking her hand he lead her into the hallway. Calling Betsey from the kitchen he ordered her to clean the vase and fill it with water. He took her bonnet of the bottom stair where it had been carelessly left by his new wife. Positioning it on her head he lightly tied the duck egg blue ribbon that fell by her cheeks.
Then taking her hand he guided her outside, again he repeated 'Flowers? Mrs Brandon'.
Her face became enlightened, 'Flowers, indeed Colonel Brandon' she giggled.
The angular precision of the wooden window frame, holding a multitude of delicate transparent squares. Created, from a distance, eight small frames of the Colonel and Marianne seemingly blissful and jovial.
Betsey moved across the room to fetch the dusty old vase that needed to be cleaned. As she passed the window she saw the Master and Mistress almost wadding through the undergrowth that grew in front of the house. She noted how happy they appeared and wished she could one day find herself in their position.
Marianne grasped a bunch of wild heather and she giggled as the Colonel attempted to reach a wild rose that stood beyond a mass of bramble bushes. Betsey noted that the Colonel had too lightly tied the ribbon on Misses bonnet and now the duck egg blue ribbon was being whipped around her face by a light wind.
