Chapter Two
Elinor awoke to the sound of Marianne's pen scratching hastily against the paper which she could only imagine to be an answer letter to Willoughby. Marianne was already dressed in a simple frock with almost no ornaments or ribbon of any kind; a strange thing for her sister. Not only a late dresser, Marianne was wont to dress as fine as possible even on the quietest of mornings, and Elinor thought it more than a little unusual that her drab, black cloak was hanging on the knob of the wardrobe as if recently utilised.
"Have you gone out?" she queried, still encumbered by a fog of sleep.
"Only for a walk," was her short reply.
"This early in the morning?"
The only sound she had in return was in the continued scratching of the pen.
"Dearest, I wish you would tell me..."
"Please, Elinor. Not now. I will tell you soon, but I need to be alone with my thoughts for the present. If I try to make sense of things before I'm ready..." The pen paused in its afflictions of the paper for a second. "No. I will tell you soon, but you must not press me now."
"Very well," Elinor murmured. "Are you coming down to breakfast?"
"I must ask you to excuse me to Mrs. Jennings as I am not quite myself this morning."
"Shall I have something sent up for you?"
"Thank you, no. I could not eat for anything in this moment."
Breakfast was a quiet and somewhat gloomy affair, even with Mrs. Jennings present. Though she teased and wheedled her best with Elinor, she did not receive the same flushed features and ducked heads that Marianne or the Miss Steeles were wont to give, and she soon contented herself with remarking on the unlucky weather that kept all the sportsman out of doors and away from London society. Elinor would not venture to say she missed Mrs. Jennings's unchecked joviality, but no more did she welcome the shift in mood that permeated the entire household—or what was left of it now that the Steele sisters had gone to stay with Fanny for the remainder of their visit.
It was about the middle of the day, and Elinor was employed in writing a letter to her mother when Marianne entered the room, looking the face of death.
"Elinor..." she began haltingly, but seeing the letter set out and the ink drying fast on Elinor's pen she retracted. "Oh, you are busy. It can keep."
"No, stay! It is only a letter to Mama. You look positively ill, Marianne. Come and sit down. I'll have another cup of tea brought up." She moved to ring the bell, but Marianne stayed her hand.
"No, thank you. I could not drink it. I cannot..." Being overwhelmed with emotion, she brought a trembling hand to her forehead and sighed deeply. She was about to go on when a distinct knock startled her into a panic. "There is someone here!"
"It may have been for next door."
"That was not for next door! Good God, it is not Willoughby?" She appeared so agitated at the thought that Elinor was convinced she feared rather than desired his company.
Footsteps approached. Marianne stood from her chair and her eyes darted about as if to find some other escape that did not require her exit by the only door to and from the room.
"I cannot face him today!" she exclaimed, and strode so hastily forward that she nearly collided with the Colonel as he stepped in. Her cheeks turned crimson and she wrung her hands in surprise.
"Colonel! Forgive me, I did not expect... You must excuse me, I am not well." And so saying, she fled to her chamber.
Elinor greeted him with more decorum and reserve. "Please forgive her, Colonel Brandon. She is not herself today."
Deep lines furrowed his brow and he seemed to be in a distress almost equal to Marianne's, though it was his way to show it in a far different manner. "Your sister is often out of spirits, it seems."
"I confess I am more than usually puzzled by her melancholy of late. I believe she confides in me as much as anyone, but I am at a loss as to how I might help her this time."
The expected pleasantries were exchanged; inquires as to the health of the youngest Miss Dashwood and their mother, comments on the weather, and various nothings that must precede any discussion of worth. Elinor was aware that the Colonel was intent on bringing the conversation around to a specific topic, but not certain how to assist him, she paused in her answers to take a long sip of tea.
Finally, he took a quiet breath as if to rally himself and asked, "When am I to congratulate you on the acquisition of a new brother?"
"I'm not certain I understand you, Colonel."
"The engagement of your sister to Mr. John Willoughby is much talked of throughout town."
Elinor's expression betrayed sincere alarm. "This is surprising to me as Marianne has offered no such confidence to her family. If they are engaged, it should not be well known."
"Is it quite impossible, then—?" here he abruptly stopped himself and seemed to reconsider. "Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. You must think me impertinent, but I came with the express purpose of inquiring whether or not things are firmly settled between your sister and Mr. Willoughby. Please tell me that of their poorly concealed relations, all that remains is their walk to the church, for only then will I deny myself the hope of ever succeeding with her."
The grave intensity with which he spoke went straight to Elinor's heart, as it indicated what profound feelings he had for Marianne. She could not think of how to answer him. Of the mutual affection Marianne and Willoughby shared, she was certain. Though the manner of their engagement was little known to her, and indeed, the lack of true correspondence seemed odd for two so desperately in love, Marianne's pining was clear and Elinor refused to give hope to the Colonel where there was none to be had.
"Though I cannot say with confidence that they are engaged, I have no doubt that she loves him and would have no hesitation in accepting his hand whenever it should be offered. I believe that... though we wait for the proper announcement, Marianne's affections are that of one already quite engaged."
He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak rose directly from his seat. After saying in a voice of emotion, "To your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her," he took his leave, and went away.
Elinor returned to the upper room with heavy heart. It was evident by his conduct and manner of speech that Colonel Brandon was quite in love with Marianne, and though she would not wish the matter settled for his sake, she feared any more waiting on Marianne's part might bring harm to her, whether by wasting away with little regard to her own health, or some romantic notion that might turn her head.
"What did the Colonel want?" Marianne asked with a listless sigh.
"Only to offer congratulations on your engagement to Willoughby."
She coloured and Elinor was surprised by the vehemence in her tone. "No, that cannot be true. You are teasing. Elinor. That isn't funny," she said severely. "Joking is not your strong suit; you should leave such devices to Margaret."
"I am quite serious. The news of Willoughby's preference for you in Devonshire has preceded his arrival here. Colonel Brandon says there is not much else talked of."
She paled then, and was thrown into a state of utter distraction. "Oh, Elinor...what am I to do? Oh, God! Whatever shall I do?"
Elinor took to her side, entreating her on her knees. "Dearest, you must tell me what troubles you! I cannot help you if you communicate nothing! Why does Willoughby not write to you? Why did he not acknowledge you at the assembly in favour of another woman? Have you quarrelled? What am I to make of all your unanswered letters and melancholy sighing? You are barely eating; you wander through rooms like a shadow; you are hardly the lively Marianne that I know and am both aggravated and endeared by. What is it, dear one?" Reaching a cool hand to her flushed cheek she pleaded, "Please, tell me. I have never seen you in such low spirits and it makes me anxious."
Marianne's head was turned towards the far corner of the chamber, but her eyes were unfocused as if she looked upon some tragic scene playing out before her and was not quite present in the room. The resignation in her voice terrified Elinor more than any previous outbursts of emotion.
"I am with child."
"Marianne..." Had Elinor not been kneeling she would have sought the nearest chair to catch herself in, for her body turned uncooperative to the task of standing.
"Confirmed only this morning while you slept," she breathed, never taking her focus from the corner of the room, "I slipped out to see an old woman who... Oh, Elinor..." her voice faded to a mere whisper and she looked her sister in the eye. "What is to become of me?"
It seemed a dreadful thing to ask, but Elinor was not willing to make anymore assumptions regarding her sister. "The child is Willoughby's?" she put carefully.
Marianne nodded piteously.
"You cannot wait for word from him any longer," Elinor insisted. "You must go to him in person and tell him to announce your engagement at once, the sooner to be married."
"We are not engaged," Marianne corrected her, "He has made me no promise. In that at least he is blameless, for he has broken no vow to me."
"No vow! Marianne, he took you to Combe Magna! He professed his love every day by each word, and look, and action. Though the words were never spoken, he behaved in a way that only men in love have warrant to, and now you carry his child! If he did not intend to marry you, he has used you most cruelly!"
"He has! He has used me! Oh, Elinor, yet I loved him!" With this she began to cry quite violently, and with such a pained look that Elinor was moved to her own tears of sympathy. "I loved him as he loved me!"
"But you are not engaged," she confirmed once and for all.
Marianne shook her head as she wept.
"Will you go to him then and ask he take responsibility?"
"No, Elinor. I will not. I cannot. There are things now I know of his character... do not ask me to speak of it, but I would not bind myself to such a man, even in such desperate straits as this. How am I to bear it?" she cried aloud, a great sob overtaking her. Soon, the emotion had quite exhausted her and she lay upon the bed continuing to bewail her miserable condition.
Elinor was at a loss for words. How could she comfort her poor sister when there was no comfort to be had? Marianne insisted that she would not go to Willoughby whatever the cause, and she must have her reasons. She wished she would tell them to her so that she might understand better or advise otherwise, but at present Marianne needed her sisterly presence and not her intrusive questioning.
The sudden entrance of Mrs. Jennings was not a welcome one. Worse still, was the news she brought; that Willoughby was now engaged to a Miss Grey with her fifty thousand pounds, and Mrs. Jennings was quite adamant about how shamefully he had used her dear friend in making everyone believe he was madly in love with her. Marianne's wails were begun anew, and Mrs. Jennings took her leave to find some treat with which to tempt her.
Elinor stayed by her side for the remainder of the day and took care of all the little comforts she was used to tending to whenever Marianne would let her. She behaved as if her every attention was on Marianne and the little tasks about the room, but all the while her thoughts were in a fog as she tried to imagine what was to be done or who they could possibly turn to for help.
Author's Notes: Who indeed! Who, in-deed?!
I'll never forget watching this scene in the film version growing up and being particularly distressed by Mrs. Jennings attempt to be helpful. Especially since olives are one of only two foods I would not consider comforting in times of distress. Almost anything else would be more "tempting." Except for mushrooms. But I remember always being equally sad for Mrs. Jennings and Marianne. For the one, because she thought she was being a good hostess but failing miserably, and the other for being offered olives as a treat when her heart was breaking. :) Poor Marianne. Tea. A good British brew with heavy cream and brown sugar is a comfort never rejected. Weeping makes eating problematic, but tea is always a good balm for a broken spirit.