Chapter Fourteen
The startling revelation that Lucy Ferrars had not married Edward had been brought to Delaford even before Edward had come to Elinor, in the most ordinary of ways, and that through the post. One might have expected the original informant to be Mrs. Jennings, who certainly would pass on the news the very moment she heard a word of it spoken, and make everyone even remotely affected aware of the shocking revelation with exceeding haste, but the source of the information came direct by Edward's own hand, in a letter to Colonel Brandon.
The missive in which Mr. Edward Ferrars broke the news of his altered situation was more a profession of gratitude than anything else. His exaltations of Colonel Brandon's generosity were extensive indeed, and his words bore an impression that he considered his good fortune due solely to the influence of the Colonel's sister-in-law, Miss Dashwood, for he could not imagine why someone with whom he shared no other connection would provide him a living.
The letter held a great deal more to offer in the matter of inheritance and income; things not at all interesting to the feminine sensibilities of Mrs. Brandon, whom the Colonel kept in mind when he brought his wife the letter and directed her to read which pages would prove most significant to her. He was correct to assume that the monetary details were of little consequence to her; she skimmed whole paragraphs that did not deal directly with Edward's marital status and consequential intentions in moving to Delaford's rectory. There was much to sift through regarding self-disparagement and unworthiness—more, certainly than even the Colonel thought entirely sensible, and though Marianne agreed with Edward's confessed faults, she did not particularly relish the reading of them—but at length, she reached the portion of the letter that contained every detail of his broken engagement, Lucy's change of heart, his brother's acquisition of her affections and hand in marriage, and the subsequent hope it rekindled in her for Elinor's sake.
Edward admitted humbly that despite his lack of wife, he was still in need of a vocation and living, and if the Colonel was of such a generous mind to allow him Delaford's parish, he would happily accept, and forever be indebted to him. He wrote as one already indebted to the Colonel for the very act of writing him, and he was certain Colonel Brandon could not know the full measure of relief and hope he'd felt in being recipient to such a correspondence. Elinor's name was never mentioned, her person never directly made reference to, but Marianne thought she was not too presumptuous to infer from Edward's letter that it was now for her sister he thought and planned.
To both Marianne and the Colonel, the question now remained as to what all should be told to Elinor. Of course they agreed that she should know Edward would be coming to Delaford, and soon, but in what manner and in what detail to alert her were the decisions they could not seem to agree upon.
Both were almost certain by the tone of the letter that Edward meant to offer himself to Elinor, though the Colonel reserved more apprehension in the light of how recently things had been settled between him and Lucy. Marianne, however, said she would be very much surprised, and ashamed of him as well, if Edward did not immediately saddle a horse and ride unceasingly day and night to make his proposal, now that he was free to do so. She said that if he truly loved her sister, there should be nothing he would endure by way of obstacle to securing her happiness and heart—now that the securing of both was nearly in reach—and they should tell Elinor at once so that she might prepare for his arrival.
Colonel Brandon was wary of raising Elinor's expectations on the chance Edward proved slack in his pursuit of her. It was Edward's role and responsibility to inform his lady, if indeed she was his, that his hand and heart were free to offer to whom he would.
In the end, he was persuaded with the knowledge that Marianne knew her sister better than he, and if she considered it best to convey the full circumstances of Edward Ferrars's arrival, he would abide by her wishes and allow her the honour of writing to her at once. Marianne would have liked to go to Elinor and speak to her in person, but she had been experiencing more pains of late and did not feel up to the journey, short as it was. So a letter was eventually decided on. Marianne intended to keep it as brief and succinct as possible for one carrying such weighty news, but she found she had so much to tell of her own strong feelings on the matter, and the many nothings that befell her over the days since Elinor's removal from Delaford and the last dinner party, that by the end of it, Edward's broken engagement and the likeliness of his being in the county made up less than a third of the letter, and its journey through the post was unintentionally delayed due to its contents taking more than one sitting to conclude.
Before the letter had reached Elinor, Edward himself had arrived in Dorsetshire, stopping first at Barton, under the accurate assumption that he would always be welcome at the cottage. It was therefore the haste of his journeying, and the accidental delay of Marianne's correspondence that had Edward calling upon Mrs. Dashwood and her two remaining daughters at home before Elinor had been made to know the nature of his visit to that part of the country.
Margaret proved herself a worthy informant for Marianne, as she wrote to her in novelesque elaboration the entirety of Edward's visit, including the suitability of his modest situation to Elinor's desire to remain industrious, as she had confessed to Margaret only minutes before accepting Edward's proposal.
As the parish was already prepared for new residents, there was no reason to delay the publishing of their banns, and both Edward and Elinor were determined that their engagement should last no longer than was strictly necessary for the sake of propriety. There was an unspoken understanding amongst those dear to them why a long engagement was not to be tolerated, and Colonel Brandon was as much admired for his provision that allowed them a short engagement as any might expect.
Marianne refused to begin her confinement until after the wedding, though she made no promises of doing so immediately following, either. It was a point of amiable contention between her and the Colonel, who though wary of the doctor's insistence of a prolonged lie-in, did not believe Marianne always the best judge of her own abilities and health. She assured him most emphatically that she would rest as soon as she felt it necessary, but had done so much lying-in already due to melancholy and discontent that she wished to be at least a little active and useful to her sister for as long as she might.
Edward and Elinor were married on a Sunday morning after services, in the very chapel which sacred duties Edward would be bound to from now on. The church was adorned with wildflowers and garlands which the parishioners had seen fit to place about the church only hours before. Elinor had a new gown of printed muslin in a lovely blue, being persuaded by her mother and sisters to purchase materials less sturdy and practical than she might have without their influence, but by no means was tempted into a finer muslin, nor would she have anything to do with silks. Marianne supposed it was best that her gown not be too garish for a minister's wife, but had insisted on lending her gloves at least, and gifted her a bonnet which she thought suited Elinor better.
Margaret was looking more on the side of fourteen than her nearly-thirteen years, and particularly pretty in one of Marianne's old frocks Mama had spruced up for the occasion. She had taken special care with the arrangement of her hair, and was even more interested in listening attentively to the ceremony and wishing Edward and Elinor happiness than tossing the petals after them with the congregants as she might have once before.
Marianne could not help but wonder if Margaret's new found gentility had anything to do with the tall young lad sitting eagerly to attention in the second-to-front pew of the assembly. She did seem most pleased to introduce his aunt and cousins with whom he lived to Marianne and the Colonel as soon as the gathering of well-wishers had filtered out enough to make room for proper introductions. Though it would be two years still before she was out and able to receive offers of courtship, Marianne knew well that youth cared little for society's standards of appropriate feeling, and she determined to pay as much heed as possible to any of Margaret's favourite persons, whether serious attachments or not.
The ride home in the carriage was filled with the pleasant recollection of all that Marianne had found excellent and endearing, no matter that they had just come from the church, or that the Colonel was there to see it all for himself; she relished in the reliving of it all, and he had no objections to the ramblings of her cheerfulness.
"But I have gone on long enough without pause," she remarked after a time, "What are your thoughts on the new couple, Colonel? Do you think they will be happy, despite the tiny pasture for their flock, and the weak curtain rods that will barely support the drapes, and the smoky furnace?" she said in mirth.
"I think it impossible for them to be otherwise, with such mutual affection to secure their future," he answered more seriously. "Edward Ferrars is a fortunate man, indeed."
"I cannot pretend to mistake your meaning," she replied, her voice turning soft and low. "I... I have a confession to make, and... I fear I've put it off for too long already." Marianne twisted her gloves in her lap, nervously anticipating her confession. She intended to declare her love to him at that very moment as the carriage—which she considered superfluous for such a short distance, but he insisted upon it—rolled gently across the scenic grounds of Delaford. The driver had been commanded to go slowly so that their passage might be all the more smooth, and Marianne could not complain, for it allowed her to consider a while before uttering such a momentous revelation too hastily.
Colonel Brandon frowned in curiosity. "Does something trouble you?"
"Yes, I can't bear keeping secrets," she expressed with more force than she meant to convey, "for it's as close to lying most will allow themselves while maintaining their sphere of moral uprightness, and many people do keep secrets with little thought as to how great a gulf it can create before it divides them completely. I am not saying our secrets will divide us, for we're not... we have not begun our marriage so very like most are begun."
"Do you mean that I keep something from you, or you from me?" he wondered aloud.
"I found the letters from Eliza." She couldn't say what prompted those words to come spilling out of her mouth, as they were nothing like the ones she'd meant to speak. "On the day you fought Willoughby. I was lonely, and I searched your writing desk to find them there. Oh!" she interjected, "That sounds terribly nosy, but I was not snooping on purpose, Colonel, I promise! I was only curious, and there are so many of them tied prettily with ribbon..." she trailed off, no longer certain of how to finish her thought.
"My brother gave them to me upon her death," he explained simply.
"Ah. Then you were not... in correspondence with her while in the Indies?"
"No," he frowned. "And I was not the cause for their divorce, either."
"Did you... were you in love with her all that while?"
He sighed, and she was almost sorry for asking, as his features darkened considerably. "I was. I am... thankful, in a way that the letters were not able to reach me until she had passed. I might have done something very foolish had I known she regretted me too."
Marianne had a fleeting moment in which she considered saying no more, but she was truly interested in her husband's past, and decided that if he was unwilling to speak of it he would tell her so. "What would you have done?" she questioned.
"Perhaps if I was at liberty, I would have caused their divorce as well as coerced Eliza to elopement. Perhaps we would have done worse, and not risked a break with the family by secretly carrying on behind their back—behind my brother's back. Our love was... ungrounded in any true merit. It was hasty, and impetuous, and foolhardy. I was warned of her darker propensities that had not even materialised fully at that time, but I was too blinded by infatuation to see any of her faults. When she put Beth in my care, I could tell she had not been driven to her waywardness merely by my brother's unloving ways, but her own unsettled soul as well."
Marianne's next question was posed with an even softer voice than her last, and her eyes remained fixated on the fidgeting of her hands as she asked, "Do you love her still?"
"I do not," he broke gently. "I am sometimes regretful that we could not have been what we were once before, though I am long since disillusioned of that possibility. But I know your views on first love and how it is never to be replaced or renewed." His tone transitioned to one of a slow, methodical kind. He spoke as he did when there was something grave he had to relate and expected Marianne's swift and open disapproval. "I know that you must think me unfaithful to the memory of my youthful love, but I cannot repent of my newer affections. I choose not to repent. If loving you with a greater depth and sorrow of the heart than I have ever loved Eliza, or could ever love her is a sin in your eyes, then it is a sin I must take to my grave, for I have no apology, nor will I be dishonest enough to pretend one."
Marianne was crying quietly, but as she made no sighs or sobs, he did not realise it until he looked to her for a reply, and was met with a downcast head and her fruitless attempts to staunch the trace of tears before the next onslaught of them trailed down her mottled cheeks.
"Do not distress yourself, Mrs. Brandon. I beg you would not," he moved forward as if considering whether or not to take the seat beside her. "I am well aware of your feelings towards me and harbour no frustrations against you. I could hardly expect you to love a man so above you in age and below you in beauty. I will not misinterpret the kiss you bestowed upon me a week ago as anything more than a method of thanks in a giddy moment. I am only thankful that such a precious gift was granted me, and I will ask no more—I shall expect nothing else, but simply learn to content myself as the kindly old man who on rare occasion might have the ability to make you smile." He tried to smile himself, but failed to make the expression reach his eyes.
Marianne was so struck by his speech that her tears had only increased rather than abated for the duration of it. They had arrived at the gate of their home before she could collect herself enough for a proper reply, but when he offered his hand to help her step down from the carriage, she grasped his forearm and clung to it tightly, not willing to loosen her grip until they were safely alone in the corridor which she drew him into as soon as the servants had divested them of hat, gloves, and outer coats.
Her hands trembled, even as she deliberately pulled him away to speak her mind. Colonel Brandon worried over her pained expression and tear-stricken face. "Are you unwell? Have I distressed you?" He attempted to usher her into the nearest room, "Come and sit in the parlour and I will have something brought for you to drink."
"Colonel Brandon, please stay a moment," she begged, resisting his intentions of moving her from the corridor. "I must speak with you. I was not finished confessing to you in the carriage, and if I am not allowed to say what I meant to, I may never find the courage again."
"Courage?" he echoed, and she nodded rather piteously.
"Yes, the courage to let go of my stubborn pride, and admit that I was wrong," she explained in sincerity. "I no longer believe that there cannot be love after loss, or that it is unfaithful to accept the truth of past indiscretions or misplaced affection. My heart has changed so much these few months, and I am learning that love may prove itself in ways more precious and steadfast through quiet perseverance than all the violent platitudes of unreserved passion. My change of heart is all due to you, Colonel Brandon, and your patience with me. I..." she faltered but briefly, fluttering her eyes upwards in order to declare, "I do not see you as a kindly old man, devoid of appeal or riddled with infirmities. Those were foolish misjudgements I made before I knew you, and certainly before we were wed. I think you the best of husbands," she reached to cup his cheek with the softest of touches, and he leaned into her palm, fearing to release the breath he'd inhaled lest the spell of her touch be broken, "I think you the dearest of men, and I love you as such. As a wife ought to love her husband. That is what I wished for you to know. That is the secret I have kept for too long."
Tears were now making silent treks down the Colonel's weathered face, and he shuddered with emotion as Marianne traced them away with her thumb. "Marianne," he warned hoarsely, foregoing any formality of speech, "I might kiss you, now."
"I might be very scandalous and allow it," she whispered, her darkened eyes and eager expression indicating that she not only allowed, but desired it.
"And what if the servants come upon us?" he questioned, bringing to mind their position in the corridor, which was not as private a location as might be wholly appropriate for a display of spousal affection. Yet even as he asked, his hand snaked around her waist to draw her closer until the small, round bump at her belly was flush against his own body, proving he was not at all concerned for the servants' sake.
Marianne now trembled with emotions of a very different nature than before. "You mean to ask; what if the servants spy a husband and wife behaving in a romantic fashion? I suppose they will infer that I am in love with you, and you with me," she smiled enticingly.
"Then their inference would be correct," was his gruff response, and he mirrored her gesture by holding her cheek with his free hand and claiming her lips with his own.
A/N: Huzzah for spousal love! I must admit, I am being bad and delaying my word count goal for the day in my current novel in order to read this chapter again before posting because I can't resist a good Colonel/Marianne bit. Even one of my own writing. :)
Thank you, everyone for the lovely reviews of the past few chapters! I have been fairly busy since marriage, moving, honeymoon, and pregnancy, all within the past 5 months, but I'm trying to get back into the writing/posting game. I'm pleased to report that Baby Poppet is growing stronger (as are his kicks) every day, and the constant morning sickness is down to a few, sporadic times throughout the week, so I'm actually able to sit down for hours at a time without breaking to lose my last meal. Now to prepare for the PCS move, and buying all the baby things before our wee one arrives! Life doesn't slow down, that's for certain.